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

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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

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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.

Can We Talk About Loneliness?

“Hear that lonesome whipporwill, he sounds too blue to fly…”

Do you know how hard it is to be alone? Do you know how hard it is to feel alone?

Loneliness isn’t just longing for a friend. In unhealthy relationships, it manifests as the result of being neglected, isolated, or unable to count on your partner.

Do you know what it’s like to be ignored by your spouse? Is your safety or your sanity at risk when your significant other is around? Has your partner isolated you from you friends and family? Do you have to cultivate and maintain your own self-worth and sense of security because you don’t have a loving partner to support you? Have you left an abusive relationship and experienced the double-edged sensation of having been lonely within that relationship and then finding yourself alone after it’s ended?

When you have a healthy level of interaction with others, you generally don’t feel lonely. When you have a partner or a spouse who is present and attuned most of the time, you don’t feel alone. Even if, within that relationship, you have times when you are physically on your own, you still have the knowledge that someone is watching out for you and cares about what happens. Your partner is your baseline and you are theirs. You can feel secure and know that there is someone around to listen and give you feedback and share the load of getting through life.

I don’t know what that feels like.

But I do know what it feels like to be lonely. I know what it feels like to long for partnership and equal investment from that partner. I know what it takes to get through life without having someone there to shoot the shit at the end of the day and help me get the laundry done. I know what’s it like to be with a partner who doesn’t know me and doesn’t care to, or isn’t capable of knowing me.

Sometimes I suspect that I’ve idealized romantic partnerships in my mind (haven’t we all? Thanks, Hollywood!), but I forgive myself for that because there’s a difference between romance and partnership. Unfortunately, my romantic relationships haven’t been partnerships. They haven’t been reciprocal, or secure, or healthy. They’ve been the opposite, in fact.

I’m a 33-year-old single mother whose friends and family are all in committed, long-term relationships. I have to admit that it’s a struggle to be surrounded by couples who have grown together as they’ve moved forward in their lives. (I think that was the most polite way I could have said that…) I have friends and family who care about me, but I know that regardless of how much they love me, or how much they want to help me, their partner takes precedence. Always.

Let’s be clear: I don’t hold this against them. I just want it for myself.

I know that no relationship is perfect and that is not at all what I’m seeking—compromise is part of any relationship! Ohhhhh, but I envy my friends and family! I envy those of them who have real, authentic partnerships. I envy them for having someone to make dinner with. I envy them for having someone to miss them while they’re gone. I envy them for the arguments they have with their spouses that don’t come from a place of fear, but instead come from a place of security, because the baseline of love and trust is so firm that the conflict doesn’t rattle it.

#tbh The people who have solid relationships kind of annoy the shit out of me sometimes, but it’s because I want what they have!

I want it! I want it! I want it! *cue adorable pouty face/pathetic foot stomping/obnoxious whining/arms folded over chest

Fine, I’m being ridiculous and dramatic on purpose. But I’m also being honest. And the feelings I’m trying to convey here come from a place of deep disappointment and frustration. I was promised partnership…it was promised to me quite a few times. And I jumped into those promises with both feet. I was there. I was with them. I was invested.

And they weren’t.

I had the rug pulled out from under me every goddamn time. Point fingers at me if you want, because yes, it takes two to make a marriage or a partnership work. I accept my role in those relationships. but I also know that I put everything I had into them. I was honest and present and giving and affectionate and resilient and reliable… I made my partners feel secure, but they didn’t do the same for me.

I really want to shout a battle cry here—“I’m a strong and independent person and I don’t need anyone!”—or something like that. But you know what? It fucking sucks to be alone.

If you are alone, if you can relate to what I’ve been talking about, then what I really want to say is that I understand. I understand the feelings of sadness, anger, resentment and fear. I understand. And it fucking sucks, but it’s okay because you keep feeling those feelings, and I keep feeling them too, and yet we keep getting through the day. We keep facing the nights. We keep going. And every step builds resilience. Every moment brings independence. Every feeling teaches us something about ourselves.

There’s no magic way I can help you stop feeling lonely, but shared understanding brings some comfort, at least. I hope I’ve done that for you if you’re struggling with loneliness, and I hope you’ll do it for someone else if you’re not.

xxJ

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Climbing up or falling down, all I have is me. It might be lonely, but it makes me strong.

Turning Paper Into Diamonds

Or, “I Bet You Look Cute in that Emotional Tool Belt”

After my divorce, I spent some time working with an abuse counsellor named Alanna. She was one of the last stops on my roundabout tour of finding caring, knowledgeable support when I was at my lowest point and needed help getting up from rock-bottom. The partner abuse program she facilitated ended up moving to a different agency and she ended up moving elsewhere as well, but the months I spent attending sessions with her had a profound effect on my daily life.

The biggest take-away from my time with her has been a single piece of paper that I keep taped up above my writing desk. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at this flimsy, white sheet and felt stronger because of it.

Good counsellors offer a wealth of helpful and insightful information, but great counsellors listen closely to their clients and offer little gems of wisdom that hit just the right note at just the right time and give the people they work with exactly what they need in that moment.

I bet you most of the time my counsellors do this and then giggle to themselves as they watch me unfold my understanding, thinking that I’ve come to some great realization all by myself, when really it’s because of their sly influence.

Damn they’re good!

Alright, I won’t keep you on tenterhooks (how’s that for a word of the day, eh?) any longer. Obviously you’re all dying to know what the hell is on this glorious, life-changing piece of paper.

Shit…now I’ve built it up too much! Ugh. Okay, it doesn’t matter, because even if you think it’s lame, it was/is totally the exact right thing I needed from this counsellor and she fucking nailed it.

Here it is, in all it’s simple glory:

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Pretty fucking awesome, right?

Okay, fine. It’s just a piece of paper with a some lines and a few very important words that suggest one simple idea: think about what your stupid, anxiety-ridden/depressed brain is telling you and then call yourself out on that bullshit and use objective proof to throw it the fuck out the window!

Or in different terms: figure out your self-critical belief, use that to identify what’s really true (your new, positive belief), and then prove to yourself that the new/positive belief is real by coming up with examples that support it.

It’s gotten to the point where I can just glance at this paper and be reminded that I’m not crazy. It reminds me that I can handle my shit. That what my abusers have told me isn’t the divine truth. That my mental illness doesn’t have to stop me from living well. That I can fucking DO THIS.

Feel free to borrow it.

Print it out, or draw your own fancy version, or scrawl the words onto a Post It and stick that shit up somewhere you’ll see it.

You’ll find that you’ll catch yourself glancing at it and thinking about its message, whether you have anxiety, or depression, or not. Whether you’re an abuse survivor or not. No matter your circumstance, you can use this tool to improve your life.

I like to think about techniques like this as tools that I keep in an emotional tool belt (a metaphor gifted to me by my other kick-ass counsellor, Daniel). My emotional tool belt used to be filled with rusty, dented, useless objects that caused me more pain and confusion than I ever needed in my life. I’ve been slowly scrapping those old, dysfunctional tools and refilling my tool belt with useful shit like this worksheet. I keep it next to my #2 Robbie (screw you Phillips screwdrivers!), a copy of Rupi Kaur’s “milk and honey”, my “DIVORCED AF” tank top, and the same stainless steel water bottle I’ve been slurping from for years (gotta stay hydrated!). I keep it with my dearest, most important possessions, but I know it’s better to share, so it’s yours to borrow now.

Use it to remember: you are more than your mental health diagnosis.

You are more than what your abusers say you are.

You are capable and smart and strong and brilliant.

You can change and you can get better tools to put in that cute-ass emotional tool belt of yours.

This paper may as well be made out of diamonds, because it’s become completely priceless to me. And I’ll keep it on my wall until it yellows and fades. I’ll keep it until I don’t need a daily reminder to re-frame my thinking, because I’ve got practices like this to grab from my cute-ass tool belt at any moment.

xxJ

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This is also usually found near my writing desk. It doesn’t fit well into my tool belt though…

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

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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

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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!