Speaking My Truth is What Saved Me

It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t psychiatric medication. It wasn’t my divorce. It wasn’t moving to the country… Authenticity is what saved me.

I’m betting we’ve all met some truly authentic people. You know, those people whose self-awareness and confidence is palpable. They always seem grounded and honest—they carry themselves with an assurance that belies a solid understanding of who they are and what they’re doing. They’re the people who start movements, who pursue their passions, who have a glowing energy, and who seem legitimately happy in their lives, despite their struggles and stresses. They are the people we want to be around and the people we want to emulate.

I think deep down we all know who our authentic self is. Deep down, we know what’s true about ourselves. And deep down, we’re aware of what we need and what we want and why, but we rarely act on this knowledge or understanding.

Why do so many of us sacrifice our authentic selves? Why do we hide our authenticity and keep our needs and wants private? Why have so many of us lost the ability to recognize and act on what we really need in order to be fulfilled?

I can’t speak for other people. I mean, I can guess at things, but really I have no idea how other people think and what they need in order to be happy; those things are going to be different for everybody.

I can tell you this, though: speaking my truth absolutely saved me.

My parents tell stories of me as a toddler where it’s clear that in my youngest years I had no problem communicating what I wanted. I’m pretty sure I just bit whoever wouldn’t listen and smacked other kids if I didn’t get my way. I was an adorable child, to be sure.

Something changed as I got older, though—I learned to turn that energy inward. I learned that it was unacceptable to lose my temper, or to bite and hit (kudos Mom and Dad!).

Unfortunately, my self-regulation skills morphed into a practice of self-sacrifice and passivity. I learned to deny my needs for the sake of keeping the peace and to focus solely on making sure that the other people around me were happy instead of myself. This skill for self-deprecation, that I honed in my childhood and my youth, led me into some really damaging relationships. In not speaking up, in not having the language or the tools to make my authentic-self known, I lost touch with my needs and I let other people take advantage of me. I developed a deep sense of insecurity, anxiety, depression, self-hatred, and despair.

This blog is the product of my experience of emotional abuse and me coming to terms with the unhealthy habits I formed that led to the unhealthy relationships I experienced. A few years ago, my life felt like a prison. I remember resolving myself to face at least 40 more years of unhappiness because of the commitment I felt to my partner and the life we had together. I remember wanting to completely disappear; to evaporate, to dissolve, to press my body up against a wall and seep into the paint and become nothing.

It was a very dark time in my life.

And then something changed: my marriage hit a breaking point and I saw an opportunity for escape. Something happened that made me feel justified in leaving my life as I knew it and moving on, despite how scary and foreign the future looked. I finally spoke up and it saved me.

Authenticity saved my sanity. It gave me strength and courage; it bolstered support from the people around me who cared to listen. It got me medical help. It brought me to my counsellors. It secured a healthier future for me and my children. It saved me from other harmful relationships. It allowed me to find meaningful, engaging work. It got my creative juices flowing again, it led me to make more music, to write this blog, and to self-publish my poetry!

Authenticity saved my life!

It was a catalyst for all the positive changes I’ve experienced these last two years. Sure, I’ve had an intense amount of counselling and therapy. I’ve started and followed a strict mental health treatment plan that includes mood-stabilizing drugs. I’ve moved to a beautiful, rural home, I’ve been exercising and eating better, I’ve got a dog and some cats, and my kids are a couple of years older and more independent now… Sure, all of those things have happened! But they wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t being authentic.

So I want to ask you, what do you need? What do you want? Who the hell are you and what does your authenticity look like?

I can pretty much guarantee that you will feel happier and healthier living authentically. Although, I can also guarantee that it’s not a magic cure for what ails you. There’s no lifestyle change, no medicine, no treatment, no herbal beverage, mantra, yoga flow, detox diet, religion, or amount of money that will stop stress from being in your life. But you will feel better and everyone around you will notice when you start to live your truth. Even the most selfish of us should want that!

Authenticity doesn’t have to be poetic. It doesn’t need to be earth-shattering or beautiful or eloquent: it just needs to be real. That’s the key.

And now I’m done sounding like a cheesy motivational article from a teen magazine…“10 Steps to Finding the REAL you! Plus, 10 Cool Outfits to Let Your Personality Shine!” Ugh, gag me! Bleh.

I just want to tell you that authenticity is the key to life, and I’ll swear by that. Literally: it’s the fucking bomb. Authenticity is where it is AT and you can fucking quote me on that. It saved my life. It can save yours. And then we can meet up and have a delicious fucking potluck and bask in the authentic glow of our gorgeous, real selves being exactly who we need to be and doing exactly what we need to do.

I’ll bring the casserole, you just bring an appetite for authenticity.

xxJ

2018-05-19 14.41.26-1
Take it from my 7-year-old: your beautiful, authentic self is in within you. Pinky-promise.

It’s Time for a Break

Today, I’m practicing some self-care.

Wednesday is my writing day. Every hump day, come hell or high water, I sit down at my laptop and put words onto a page, either for this blog, for my poetic pursuits, or for personal use.

Every Wednesday I write, but this week, I woke up and had exactly zero motivation to write anything.

Usually I have a pretty good idea of what I’m going to write each week. By Wednesday I’ve usually had something floating around in my head for a while and all I need to do is sit down on my designated day and let the words come out. This week is different, though. I mean, I have lots of half-baked blog posts and poem ideas sitting around, and I could force myself to try to extrapolate a longer, more polished piece out of them, but I don’t even have enough gumption for that.

Honestly, one of my pet peeves with forcing myself to try to make a piece “work”, is that it always ends up coming off as forced. Like, I can tell, and so I assume you can tell, that when I do that, authenticity is lacking in my writing.  I understand that as a writer, one of my tasks is to just write the fuck anyway, and I do, every Wednesday, and other days too, to be honest. But I usually approach my writing days with excitement or at least some level of eagerness. I usually feel inspired and prepared to write.

Today, I just feel blaaaaahhhhh.

But it’s Wednesday, so I’ve made myself sit down at my laptop and as I’m typing and pathetically moaning about how crappy I feel, I’ve realized what I need to write about. What I need to say is that I need a break. My body is shouting at me take a pause, and that’s what I’m going to talk about.

Maybe it’s the weather (gray, dreary, and a lovely mix of sleet and rain), maybe it’s the shorter days, maybe it’s the recent changes in some of my relationships, maybe it’s PMS (it’s definitely PMS); I’m pretty sure it’s all those things, actually, but it’s also something else.

I’ve been busting my ass trying to move forward in my life. I’ve been more focused and motivated in the last 6 months than I have in the last 6 years. All this effort is bringing me crazy-awesome rewards, like all the fucking fantastic followers I now have with head/strong (THANK YOU!!!!). There always comes a point, though, when I’ve reached what I think of as “enough.” It’s not a great place to get to, and I’ve learned that when I haven’t paid attention, “enough” comes and goes and I get to “too much”, which often leads to “far too much”, or worse, “complete mental breakdown.”

One of the biggest tolls my past has had on me is that it depleted my physical, mental, and emotional capacities. I am slowly crawling my way back towards health—I’ve already written about my nutrition, my physical activity, and my kick-ass counsellors—but today is a reminder that sometimes, I just have to give in and give up on pushing myself for a little while.

Tuning into this need for rest is something else I’ve had to re-learn post-abuse, because along with losing my stamina, in the last decade I also lost my sense of intuition. Or, at least, I lost the ability to listen to my intuition. I’m pretty sure it was still there, screaming at me; I just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) hear it.

My intuition is telling me that I need to slow down, so I am. I’ve given myself permission, which is a powerful exercise, let me tell you. To give yourself permission, to actually verbalize that and embrace what your body is telling you—that’s some powerful shit, yo.

And today I had to do it. I had to allow myself to take a pause and check in.

I said fuck it and decided that my plans for this Wednesday include writing the fuck anyway about whatever the fuck comes into my head, enjoying my tea, and not doing much else until my daughters get home from school.

It’s a luxury, I know. Many other people wouldn’t get to do the same on any given Wednesday. I’m sorry; that sucks. Because sometimes, on a Wednesday, you need to take a break. It doesn’t always happen when it’s convenient. If I had a job out of the house, though, I’d likely be calling a sick day. I’d need to! It’s not worth it to me, to push myself harder, when I know that the likely outcome is breakdown or worse.

I think even if you have a commitment that happens to fall in the middle of an “I need a break or imma kill someone” moment, or if it’s an “I need to curl up into a ball, pull some covers over my head, and not come out for at least 24 hours” kind of day—whatever kind of day, really—you can still find ways to attend to the needs of your body.

A few suggestions:

  • Eat good food (however you define that)
  • Drink something yummy and revitalizing (ideally not alcoholic if you have to work or have children to care for)
  • Listen to music or a podcast that makes you feel good (I currently have some gorgeous classical music on)
  • Move slowly and with intention
  • Pause when you can
  • Breathe deeply, stretch, go for a walk, scream for a minute in your car…whatever!

Trust me. Whatever you do, it’ll be worth it, bcause it will help you avoid getting past “enough” and slow things down before you crash into “more than enough”, or worse.

So, it’s Wednesday, and I’ve gotten the kids off to school, I’ve walked the dog in the rain on a day that looks more like the night, I’ve cooked some eggs and had some tea (hurray for caffeine!) and now I’ve made myself write a few hundred words that feel authentic, which is all I can ever ask of myself, really. Now I’m going to go binge-watch some Flash and find a kitten or two to use as a heating pad. What does your self-care look like for today?

Happy hump day, all.

xxJ

2018-10-31 11.09.01
Warm, woolly socks, comfy clothes, and an adorable kitten…I’m ready to sit down and not get up again for a few hours, at least. This is my self-care for the day.

Now You Are Lost

Rediscovering your identity after abuse.

Emotional abusers make you into whoever they want you to be, so whatever identity you have is the product of the screwed up environment you’ve been in and the screwed up messages you’ve received. When you leave that toxic person and that toxic environment, you lose whatever person you were. You lose the identity you abuser gave you; when you leave your abusive partner, you leave yourself behind too.

I lost myself in every significant relationship I’ve ever been in. In each of them, I fulfilled my partner’s needs and wants to my own detriment. I took on, or was given, roles and responsibilities that I didn’t want. I was told and shown that I was worthless and stupid and wrong all the time, and that everything was always, always, always my fault!

I ended up believing that was who I am.

And when I found myself alone two and a half years ago (How has it been that long already?!) I realized that the only identity I had was the one I let other people make for me. And I came to understand that I had absorbed, most especially, the identity my abusers had given to me.

It was the worst kind of personal epiphany.

It was so hard to recognize how little I knew about myself; it felt shitty to see that I was screwed up and feel so completely unsure about myself.

As time has passed, though, and my life has settled a bit, I‘ve had time to learn more about my authentic self and I’ve gained a few nuggets of wisdom about rediscovering an identity after abuse.

Actually, I’ve worked really fucking hard to figure it out, so I want to share it with you. (Because caring is sharing, right?) Here’s the head/strong guide to finding yourself post-abuse, in six [not so] easy steps.

Enjoy.

HOW TO FIND YOUR IDENTITY AGAIN
(After Leaving That Shit-For-Brains Piece Of Slime Who Treated You Like Crap For So Long That You Learned To Believe It)

Step 1: Get the hell away from anyone who isn’t treating you well.

If you feel like crap around them, stop engaging with them! Or, if that’s not possible, get help establishing and maintaining some firm boundaries to protect yourself around them. Hopefully you have someone you can trust and call on at this time. If not, seek someone out at a shelter, hospital, doctor’s office, counsellor’s office, or mental health program. There is always someone to talk to, but you do need to be willing to ask.

Step 2: Make your home a sanctuary.

Or your room. Or wherever you spend the most time. You don’t need to hire a designer and bring in tasteful accents to make your space feel like an oasis, you only need to make it feel safe—whatever that means to you, whatever that looks like to you, whatever you can afford.

For me, having photos of my daughters and I, and our friends and family, up on the walls of my house was really important in asserting my identity as a mother and a single-parent. Getting a new bed and having comfortable bedding was also a priority for me, especially since anxiety often robs me of sleep. I love bright, rich colours, so the art and furnishings I‘ve found for my space reflect this (I also love me some secondhand treasure-hunting! A go-to for decorating on a budget). I need music in my life that reflects my moods, so having speakers and a personalized digital music library was an essential addition to my space. I also established very early on that all pick-ups and drop-offs with my children would happen in a neutral place or out on my driveway, so that the sanctity of my space was maintained.

There are so many ways you can manifest your sanctuary: colours, scents, sounds, art, food, furniture… As much as possible, be intentional with what you put in your space.  

Step 3: Surround yourself with people who are authentic and who bring you up instead of down.

It’s time to weed out the baddies. This part SUUUUUUUCKS and it takes some time, but it is massively important to revitalizing your identity.

You already took the courageous step of leaving your abuser/s (you’re such a legit badass!!) now make sure that everyone else in your life supports, loves, and nourishes you because you will be fragile at this time. You will be scattered and scared and messy, so the ones who show up and who leave you feeling better than when they arrived, those are the ones to keep around. Anyone who leaves you feeling worse than when they got there needs to be shown the door (good-bye!). We can’t avoid all annoying people (if only, eh?!), but we can control who we let into our inner-sanctum both literally (see Step 2) and emotionally/figuratively.

Step 4: Do something that you love.

Find something that you enjoy and just fucking do it! It does NOT have to cost a lot of money. It does NOT have to take up a big chunk of your time. It just needs to be something you can do reliably and regularly.

I returned to writing when my “Life 1.0” ended. I returned to making music at the same time. I began reading again. I gardened. I went out and started rock climbing with a friend. My life as a single mom means that I have limited free time, a limited budget, and a limited amount of energy to put towards things, so I found activities that were easily accessible to me and slowly increased the amount I time I spent on them. Regardless of budget or lifestyle, you can find a hobby you like to do. The only criteria is that it has to make you feel good.

Step 5: Put effort into rediscovering your identity.

Duh. That’s what this blog post is all about! And Steps 1-4 lay out some clear ideas for ways you can work on finding yourself after abuse. But Step 5 is here because the previous four steps don’t talk about the emotional work that needs to go into rediscovering identity.

Counselling, if it’s available to you, is hugely helpful with this step. Keeping a journal, doing monthly check-ins, picking up an inspiring and motivational self-help book, joining a support group, or participating in a mental health day program like the one I went to, can all be super-duper helpful in maneuvering the path towards self discovery post-abuse. You need to tune in and acknowledge yourself: your needs, your wants, your skills, and your faults (see my previous post for how to identify healthy self-beliefs). You need to take sometime and figure out not “who am I?” but, “who am I right now and where do I want to go from here?”

Step 6: Repeat steps 1-5, as needed.

Rinse and repeat, people! Check in with how you’re feeling and adjust as necessary. This is an ongoing process. The definition of yourself can change. In fact, it already did when you left your abuser! But when you craft your OWN identity, these changes happen fluidly, which means they’re a hell of a lot more manageable and you stay in control of how things flow and who you are.

Your abuser(s) may have handed you a shitty deal, but you now have the opportunity to trade some cards in and get a royal flush. Jackpot!

Okay, I know honestly know shit-all about poker, but you get the point, right? Your abuser was (is) an asshole, but you’re not (I’m assuming) and you don’t have to let that jerk control your life anymore. You get to rediscover who you are after abuse. You get to decide what your identity looks like. Confident, crafty, gritty, humble, kind, tough, simple, fancy…whatever! You can find your identity after leaving your abuser, you just need the right steps to follow and the right supports to climb them.

xxJ

2018-10-17 12.01.28
This cheery reminder hangs in my living room for my daughters and I to see every day. Artist credit: Becca Cahan for Society6

What We Need to Hear

“I believe you.”

Once I started speaking up about my experience of abuse, those three words became a crucial message I needed to hear.

“I believe you.”

It was even better if they were followed by the words, “What do you need right now?” or, “What’s his address? My fists would like to meet him.”

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Not really…people did say things like that to me and I kind of loved it #sorrynotsorry

Violence is not the answer, friends! But dear god did it feel good to know that someone else felt as upset as I did!

I needed to know that the people I cared about understood what I was telling them.  In sharing my story with my trusted friends and family, I was able to gather support around myself. Even those tongue-in-cheek threats to go rough-up the people who messed with me helped me feel safe enough to ask for help and to open up about my experience. Overwhelmingly, the people I told treated me like my experience was valid and they stood by me as I disentangled myself from my past and started to recognize and deal with what had happened. 

Emotional abuse is most insidious when it’s subtle; it is difficult for outsiders to see and virtually impossible for its perpetrators to recognize (and tbh, even if they could recognize it, chances are they’d be disinclined to change their behaviour!). I didn’t have bruises or scars. I had, however, endured years of being controlled and manipulated through gaslighting, neglect, put downs, and blame…none of which were obvious and none of which left marks on my body. For a long time I yearned for my abusers to recognize what they had done to me. I wanted them to look at me and identify as abusers. Maybe they’d go to rehab, or AA, or therapy, or have an epiphany, break down, and beg me for forgiveness in front of all my friends and family…

Kidding again.

Sort of…

Eventually, my healing journey brought me to a point where I no longer craved that affirmation, but it wasn’t easy to reach that level of self-assuredness. I had to accept both my victim-hood and that fact that I would have to continue standing up for the legitimacy of my experience with outsiders to my community and with my abusers. I realized, too, that the weight of my truth came only from the consistency of my story, so I kept telling it! And I keep talking about it, because it’s real and others need to understand that! The more I spoke up, the more I wanted to speak up, and the more I understood about my experience. Now, I want to help other survivors feel like they can speak up and be believed and I want perpetrators of abuse to be held accountable. Because of the support of those around me, I can now share my story more widely and hopefully help more people understand emotional abuse. 

I often think about how our society has become incredibly adept at downplaying uncomfortable truths. We don’t want to hear the “bad” stuff, even if it’s true! I know my experiences could be dismissed by people because “nothing bad happened” (i.e. I didn’t end up in the hospital, or dead, or my partner/s didn’t go to jail). But even when faced with irrefutable evidence that abuse of any kind has taken place, people tend to dispel its authenticity, ignore its credibility, and treat its victims as though they are snotty, selfish whistle-blowers trying to slander the “good” name of the accused.

It pisses me off that at this point I feel compelled to point out that yes, a very, very, very small number of people claim abuse in order to stick it to another person out of spite or anger or selfishness. Because that does happen. It does, I know. But overwhelmingly, abuse victims who speak up do so from a place of honesty and authenticity and at great personal cost, so can we just move on from this technicality and support the people who have struggled to speak up in spite of the trauma they’ve experienced?

Mmkay thanks!

Imagine standing up in front of the people you care about the most and admitting your deepest, darkest secret to them. Imagine looking out at them and forcing yourself to share the part of you that brings you the most shame. Imagine that feeling of intense discomfort, the feeling of letting them down, of embarrassment, of anger, of sadness, of guilt… Then imagine doing this completely naked. In the winter. Outside. With all your neighbours looking at you. While your dog takes a dump and your children start to bicker about who got the bigger piece of cake for dessert while also complaining that they’re cold and tired and can we just go inside now pleeeeeeeeeeease???

Okay, okay, I’m being a bit facetious… forgive me for trying to add some humour here!

What I’m trying to express is that it comes at great cost to an abuse survivor to speak up. It is fucking terrifying to utter the words “I’ve been abused” or whatever other version of that you say. It feels like an admission of personal failure, regardless of how understanding your audience is. Chances are, your abuser taught you that everything is your fault (mine did!) so admitting to the abuse is admitting to being wrong—they weren’t who you thought they were, you aren’t actually happy, you stayed for way too long, you couldn’t “fix” them, you couldn’t make it better.

I tell myself everyday that what happened to me wasn’t my fault. That it was real and that the time I need to heal and recover is necessary and reasonable. I‘ve been very fortunate: my community has always believed me, even when I didn’t have the language I do now to describe my experiences. Even when I was a blubbering, suicidal, manic mess! Even though I pretended for a very long time that nothing was wrong.

They believed me.

And I believe me.

And if you speak up, I’ll believe you too.

And then we can have a conversation and I’ll listen and together we can unpack the experiences and struggles that caused you to speak up because I know how fucking hard it is to do that.

“I believe you.”

xxJ

2016-07-14 15.27.52
We, as abuse survivors, may feel scratched and broken, but solidarity from others can help heal our hearts and make us stronger.

Everything Needs to Be Perfect

Because that’s not too much to ask, right?

I live with a dual mental health diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Of the two, anxiety is the stronger beast and tends to take first billing in the screenplay of my life. One of the core contributors to my anxiety is an ever-present and absolutely fervent desire to be perfect. I try to come off as cool and calm and relaxed—ha! The vicious truth is that the effort I put into seeming nonchalant about things is actually a symptom of my perfectionism.

Oh, cruel irony!

Anxiety produces hyper-vigilance in me so habitual that it pervades all of my life. Everything ends up being calculated and controlled and set up so that I have the absolute best chance of not failing or embarrassing myself, even if the threat of failure or embarrassment isn’t actually real.

It’s kinda messed up, right?

These are the levels of thinking that Generalized Anxiety Disorder bequeaths upon me! I have the gift/curse of being so so so SO aware of every goddamn thing I’m doing all the time. And if I perceive a risk of failure or humiliation, no matter how small, it’s always a full-stop.

Okay, there are probably times when I can’t avoid risky situations (okay, there are definitely times when I can’t avoid risky situations…), but that doesn’t stop me from doing everything I can to mitigate the chances that I won’t be successful.

I’m not exaggerating: perfectionism rules my world, friends.

In some ways, my perfectionism is good; it pushes me to strive for success, which can be very motivating and, in certain contexts like school, perfectionism helps me succeed at a high level. It makes me an attentive mother/friend/lover/daughter/sister/person and it ensures that I give my full effort to whatever I take on.

But here’s the other edge of the sword; perfectionism is my enemy too. When its hyper-vigilant voice takes control, it debilitates me and vilifies me with feelings of unworthiness, failure, guilt, and shame. Sometimes I can’t do something because I’m too afraid that I will fail. Sometimes, unexpected challenges or variations pop up and my carefully-crafted perfectionist plan gets thrown out the window, which triggers major anxiety in me. A lot of the time, perfectionism makes things take waaaaaaaaaay longer than they need to, because I have to lay out and follow a prescribed set of steps to accomplish whatever level of success my perfectionism has determined for me.

I can’t even send a fucking text message without re-reading it eight times and checking for typos. And heaven forbid if I edit my text, send it, and then find a latent typo! The shame I feel on those occasions is akin to when you accidentally call your grade 4 teacher “Daddy” instead of Mr. Snair (not that I ever did that!). Or when you’re 12 years old and you catch your toe on an uneven patch of sidewalk and stumble awkwardly while sauntering past your current crush AKA the love of your life AKA THE ONLY PERSON WHO MATTERS IN THE ENTIRE WORLD

Writing this blog is a test of patience and mental fortitude for me. I will admit, I re-read everything I write, including unpublished drafts and the bits and bobs I keep around as potential writing topics in the future, at least 800,000,000 times before I hit “publish.” Then I look them over another bajillion times after publishing to affirm (and reaffirm, and re-reaffirm, and re-re-reaffirm…) that my writing is worthy of being looked at by other people.

In my past relationships, perfectionism fed my codependent behaviour and my abusers benefited greatly from my desire to make things perfect (i.e. the work I put into making them happy, keeping our lives together, making it look like everything was okay to others, etc…). They used this to encourage me into putting more and more effort into fulfilling their desires, instead of addressing my own needs. Emotional abusers don’t care about the amount of effort their victim puts forth, they only care about getting what they want. I was the perfect candidate for the job of codependent and perfectionism was a big contributor to helping me get hired.

I know that perfectionism isn’t a healthy habit. I also know that it’s something I’ll have to keep working on, probably for the rest of my life. In fact, one thing I’ve come to understand about a diagnosis of something like Generalized Anxiety Disorder, is that it’s a lifelong diagnosis and that the effects of this disease can be managed, but never eliminated.

Perfectionism is a part of me that will never go away, but I do practice relieving myself of the pressure to be perfect as often as possible. I try to allow myself to fail. I try to allow myself to make mistakes. I attempt to allow myself to not know something every once in awhile. I also let myself ask for help (well I try to, at least!).

I may have to force myself to do these things, but I do them because I know that putting myself in these situations prepares me for when it’s not a choice to have things change. Maybe the funny part of this is that in choosing to allow myself these transgressions, I’m still allowing my perfectionism and anxiety to hold the reins, but this way they remain at a distance. I’m electing to put myself into “risky” situations so that I can be better prepared for when truly risky moments occur.

So I’m still being perfectionist—I’m still plotting out the course I will take every single day. It’s just nuanced so that outwardly, it doesn’t appear that I’m controlling things and so that inwardly, I still get peace of mind and maintain a sense of control, which helps me manage my anxiety and makes me feel successful.

Does perfectionism rule your life too? Maybe we should start a support group… How about, “Life Will Never Be Perfect So Let’s Get Real About That And Figure Shit Out Anonymous”?

xxJ

IMG_6607
Every sunset is perfect, yet every sunset is different. So does that mean that none of them are perfect? Or is it all just a matter of perspective?

Let’s Get Physical

Some days, you just have to sweat it out.

I’m sore right now.

In fact my body is so sore that it’s hurting to type these words. This kind of pain is the best kind, though, because it comes with a deep sense of satisfaction. I’m sore because I worked hard today. I used my body today. I got a bunch of shit done that needed a bunch of muscle to do it.

Hell yeah!

Living on my own and being a single mom means that I’m the only adult around about 99% of the time, so when something breaks, I have to fix it. When someone gets hurt, I have to look after them. When something needs doing, I have to do it.

I don’t always like living this way, and sometimes I do have to recruit help, but overall I get things done and I take pride in what I accomplish as a single woman.

Today my kids are with their father. I haven’t seen them since last night at 7:00 pm and I won’t be with them again until two days from now at 4:00 pm. I can’t express how awful it is to be forcibly separated from them so often. I still struggle to reconcile myself to this new reality in which I am forced to be a part-time parent.

Please don’t give me those bullshit statements that people always seem to say when I’m sad about not having my kids with me:

“But now you have so much time to yourself; you can do the things that you want to!”

or,

“I wish I had that much time to myself! My kids are driving me crazy!”

Fuck that.

No, seriously, stop saying that shit to me! I am not a mother who wishes she wasn’t one. I’m not a parent who intended to have a rigid custody and access schedule and who wanted to be put in a situation where I had to choose between staying in an abusive relationship to be with my kids full time, or leaving that relationship and giving up the freedom and flexibility I had as a mother before my marriage ended.

I miss my kids like crazy when they aren’t here. In fact, I have a physical sense of hurt deep within me that never goes away now. I’m trying to find ways to dull that ache and one of the best coping strategies I’ve found is to get outside and, in the immortal words of Olivia Newton-John, get physical.

Today I spent the morning weed-whacking my front yard. I then cut the grass—all 1.3 acres of it—with my lawn tractor. I chopped wood for two hours. I then finished weed-whacking and trimmed up all the edges in the backyard that my tractor couldn’t reach. Then I ran around with the dog for awhile because I just couldn’t stop moving yet. I made sure that for the majority of my day I was outside, breathing fresh air, moving my body, and focusing on anything other than the fact that I am hurting so much on the inside.

I’m kind of proud of being sore tonight; it’s a testament to my physical strength. It felt so  damn good to swing that ax and watch as a pile of freshly hewn logs stacked up beside me. It felt fucking amazing to have the energy to spend so many hours doing physical labour, when chronic fatigue has been my constant companion for almost a decade.

I’m proud tonight, because my calluses, my blisters, and my aching muscles are also a testament to my emotional strength.

When you hold a hurt like I do, deep inside of yourself, every day and every night, it sometimes feels impossible to do anything else. When I’m able to get beyond those feelings and summon the motivation to DO SOMETHING, to take real action and to find something to feel positive about, I think I’ve earned the right to feel pretty fucking good about myself.

I may wake up tomorrow and find it hard to move. My joints may crack and my back may groan with stiffness, but those pains will be a reminder of what I accomplished today and they’ll help inspire me to try to move beyond my pain and do something else with my day. I know there will be times in the future where all I can manage is to keep breathing—I’ve accepted that relapse with my mental health problems is a part of my life from now on—but a day like today shows me that there will also be days when I can shut off the emotional pain by channeling my energy into productive things.

I will gladly take the bruises. I will happily sport blisters and calluses. I will willingly put my body to work so that I can ache all over again. 

There was a time, not too long ago, when I didn’t think I could keep going. On a daily basis I felt like I should give up on life. But here I am. Here I fucking am! And my sore fingers, typing on these keys, are well deserved. It took more than yard work to earn them today: it took guts, and it took grit and tonight I’ll sleep soundly and relish the ache in my muscles tomorrow, and hopefully hang on to the strength I feel right now until my babies get home.

xxJ

2018-07-21 12.22.50-1
Gettin’ physical, ridin’ dirty.

A 7-Layer Cake

Don’t let the bastards get you down; eat chocolate cake instead.

This past spring I took a writing course. It had the amazingly succinct, yet perfectly spot-on title of “Write Anyway,” subtitle: “don’t let the bastards get you down.”

I mean, it’s perfect, right?

It turned out that Write Anyway was about way more than just writing. Because during the course and since then, I‘ve ended up taking the messages and philosophy of the course and applying them not only with my prose, but also in my life.

See, I’ve led a life that was, up until this point (and excusing maybe those first 5-6 years of life when all children are entirely self-motivated because, you know, survival and all that), one where I prioritized everyone else’s needs and wishes before addressing my own. It’s been one where I constantly second guessed myself, felt anxious about even the tiniest decisions, and intentionally kept things private because I feared criticism, embarrassment, and a sense of failure.

But I’m learning some new things now, and I’m trying some new things now too, so I took a leap and signed up for the writing course. In doing so, I challenged myself to be vulnerable and authentic and, you know, kind of, sort of legit with my writing and with myself.

Somehow it ended up feeling like participating in Write Anyway became the pinnacle of all the hard work I’ve been doing! It was like the icing on the top of a massive, multi-tiered cake I’ve been building these last few years. Like, I’m imagining that I’ve been adding layer after delicious layer of what is the most mouth-watering cake ever created. In my mind, this cake is a decadent dark chocolate and sits at least 7 tiers high. Each layer represents a momentous benchmark I’ve achieved:

Layer 1: Ending my marriage (hallelujah!).

Layer 2: Getting a mental health diagnosis and starting treatment.

Layer 3: Finding the right psychiatric meds to be on (this took sooooooo long and was sooooooo effing difficult).

Layer 4: Beginning therapy with some amazing counsellors and seeing/feeling real, authentic progress.

Layer 5: Buying my own home out in the most beautiful goddamn place and knowing that I don’t ever have to move again (can I get an amen?!).

Layer 6: Getting my first real job in almost a decade.

Layer 7: Calling myself a writer and signing up for “Write Anyway.”

Icing: Participating in said writing course (and giving it every ounce of effort and energy I could muster!).

Sprinkles (of course there are sprinkles!): Launching head/strong, sharing my story, and taking the leap into being a legit writer/blogger.

In between each of these layers would be the richest, creamiest, dark chocolate ganache, which cements everything together and makes sure that this cake doesn’t crumble or fall. Or maybe it would be custard. Or raspberry jam. Or strawberry! Mmmmmm…

Okay, okay, I’ll quit it with the cake analogy… it’s making me quite hungry, actually… The point I’m trying to make with my appetite-inducing dessert comparison is that I now finally have the confidence and the energy to just fucking WRITE ANYWAY in every single part of my life! (As in the literal sense of writing down words and in the metaphorical sense of, “we all write our own life stories.”)

I can write my own life and while I sometimes feel pangs for the life I thought I would have, or regret the words I thought I could have written better, I’m forging ahead and showing up and I’m living and writing the fuck anyway!

So thank you to Janelle Hanchett of Renegade Mothering who taught the writing course, and to the incredible and engaging women who took Write Anyway with me! Thank you for putting the icing on the cake of my accomplishments and pushing me that little bit further so I can show up and be present in my life.

I feel charged, I feel competent, I feel like taking some risks. And I know that’s the key to succeeding in life: you show up, you do your best, and you keep going even when the icing starts to melt, or someone’s stuck their thumb into the cake and fucked things up a bit.

Isn’t it amazing that life can be so delicious, even when it seems like it’s also full of shit?

xxJ

headstrong blog post - Sept 9 2018
When life hands you lemons, make chocolate cake instead!