Story Time: The Story of the Girl Who Felt Too Much

Once upon a time there was a little girl who had enormous feelings. To her, the sky was never just blue: every day it amazed her with different shades of sapphire, azure, violet, ultramarine, or indigo. To her, a sunset was never just a sunset: it was a daily dose of unspeakable beauty and magic. To her, happiness was never just happiness: it was exuberant, all-encompassing joy! To her, sadness was never just sadness: it was a deep feeling of despair, sorrow, and anguish. To her, love was never just love: it was a profound commitment of devotion, adoration, and affection.

To this girl, everything felt big, BIG, BIG.

But the girl quickly learned that few people felt the world like she did and that most people couldn’t understand what it was like to be a Big-Feeling person in a Little-Feeling world.

When she was very young, her big feelings would come out as stubbornness, passion, or exuberance.

“Don’t be too sensitive.” she was told.

“Don’t be so shy.” they said.

“You need to stop crying so much.”

“It’s not a big deal; just get over it.”

So the girl tried her best to hold back her big feelings—she learned that big feelings aren’t appropriate. She learned to be polite and cautious, and giving and passive. She listened to the Little-Feelers and did what they asked of her.

But this got the little girl into trouble. Because when the little girl grew into a bigger girl, she became someone who was always doing what everyone else wanted her to do, instead of taking care of herself.

Soon, some No-Feeling people came along and started to take advantage of her. Since the girl was now used to holding back her enormous feelings and had become so good at ignoring what she wanted or needed, she let these people, the No-Feelers and the Misunderstand-ers, do and say bad things to her for many years. From them she learned that even when she tried her best to be a Little-Feeler, she was still Far Too Much. And that being Far Too Much somehow also meant that she was Never Enough—she went from being a Too-Much-Feeler to a Never-Enough-Feeler.

The girl was taught to be obedient and submissive and quiet. She never knew what the No-Feelers were going to demand of her, or what harsh words they were going to say, but she still wanted to feel something, so she did everything they asked, trying to earn love from those No-Feelers. She gave and she gave and she gave…and eventually she gave so much of herself, that there was hardly anything left.

Then, on a cold, winter’s night, one of the No-Feelers let her down and hurt her badly enough that something inside her shook to life. She finally became aware that the people around her weren’t actually giving her love; that they were selfish, No-Feelers and that she needed to escape from her life with them.

On that night, the girl-now-woman reached deep down inside of herself and found a small piece of the stubborn, passionate, exuberant little girl she used to be. She decided, somehow, that she no longer wanted to be Not Enough. And she put that tiny piece back into its place.

She tried to hold it there carefully, but sometimes she lost it as she fought against the No-Feelers, who refused to let her go. Thankfully, she always found the little piece again and amazingly, this piece, so fragile and nearly forgotten before, began to grow.

Clutching that tiny shred of her childhood, and drawing on the Big Feelings she had found again, the woman was able to get away from all the bad, No-Feeling people she had become entangled with.

Sadly, the damage that the No-Feelers and the Misunderstand-ers had done was so much that the woman still didn’t feel like enough. But she practiced, every day, and she started to learn that there were people who loved her, even though she was a Big-Feeler and even if they weren’t.

The woman kept practicing, still often feeling like a Too-Much-er in a Too-Little world, but also enjoying a reunion with her big feelings. She began to see the sky as infinite shades of blue again. Sunsets and sunrises made her pause with their enchanting beauty. She laughed sometimes and she cried a lot. And she slowly started to embrace being a Big-Feeler, because she had finally realized that she couldn’t change how she felt the world and that she didn’t need to.

xxJ



“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” – Roald Dahl

Damn, I Wish It Was Easier.

Grief is a tricky, messy feeling. It manifests in many different ways and goes at a pace that is unique to each person who struggles with it. I’ve personally experienced the death of loved ones and I know what that grief feels like.

I still carry with me a sense of loss for those people I no longer have in my life, but I’ve learned that grief can also be a response to things other than literal death. In the counselling I’ve done these last few years, I’ve come to realize that I am living in a cycle of grief. Not because someone I loved has died, but because the life I thought I would live ended.

Just as it does when we grieve the death of another person, my grief ebbs and flows; it changes, but it still persists. Some days are easier than others, but last week, when I wrote about struggling at Christmas time, my grief was very present. The holidays bring out all the symptoms of my grief because this time of year highlights many of the difficult and lonely situations I have to face in my post-divorce/post-abuse life.

I’m not sure how many people consider the experience of a break-up, or divorce, or another significant life change, as something to grieve, but I now believe that part of what makes these break-ups so difficult is that in these situations, we have to learn to accept life without the person or things we thought we were going to have. The plans we made, the future we envisioned, the expectations we created; these are all things that may contribute to our sense of grief at the end of a relationship or during a big change in our circumstances.

The grief I am living with now is for losing the life I envisioned as a mother and the life I thought I would have as a wife. It’s also because of a deep sense of injustice that I haven’t been able to get over yet.

Imagine being away from your kids every other weekend and committing to this schedule until your children have grown. Consider for a moment what it would feel like to wake up on Christmas morning and not see your own kids. Imagine how it feels to answer phone calls when your child is with their other parent and tell them, as they beg you to let them come home, that you can’t come and get them (because a court order says they have to be with your former partner). Pretend for a minute that your baby is sick and you can’t hold them because you can’t be with them during their other parent’s access. Imagine that you have to explain to your kids over and over again why you and your partner have separated, but at the same time, you can’t say to them that the reason for this is a long-standing history of domestic abuse. 

This is how I experience life in a family of divorce and I will readily admit that it has been a devastating change for me to try to accept.

I once had someone tell me that giving up Christmas mornings and living through those teary phone calls are “necessary sacrifices” in order to save ourselves from an abusive or unhealthy partnership. It’s become a small comfort to tell myself that and I’ve looked for other ways to help assuage my grief. For example, soon after my separation from my husband, I wrote a little sentence that has become somewhat of a mantra to me, and I keep it in mind whenever my grief bubbles up and I feel guilty, sad, or angry about my circumstances.

I tell myself,

“I would always rather explain why I left, than why I didn’t.”

These words offer a little assurance when I start feeling triggered, but my grief is a constant in my life. It is present all the time and every day that I miss with my girls, every Christmas I don’t wake up to their happy faces, every birthday when we’re not together, every time they call and ask to come home, every time I am surrounded by friends and family in loving, intact relationships, I am reminded of my loss and reminded that this is how it will always be from now on.

Always, in the corner of my heart, I hold my grief.

Always, I feel it in my gut.

It is always there.

Much like how we need to acknowledge and accept that mental health can be just as debilitating as any other disease, we also need to see that grief is a reasonable response to loss and not just to death. As I said before, I used to think of grief as something we only experience when a person we care about dies. Now I see that grief really means experiencing profound loss of any kind and trying to come to terms with it.

So I allow myself to acknowledge my grief and I know that’s the best way to deal with it. I also know that I need to give myself permission to feel shitty sometimes; grief has no timeline, no schedule, no checklist and I need to make space for it on the difficult days. The only way to move through grief is to live through it.

Damn, I wish it was easier.

xxJ

2018-11-28 12.09.37
“Some pain is simply the normal grief of human existence. That is pain that I try to make room for. I honor my grief.” – Marianne Williamson

Embrace Me

It’s my body and I’ll eat pie if I want to.

Up until very recently I was living a depleted life. My days were filled with anxiety and depression, I was constantly overwhelmed and tired. My sleep was poor, I got light-headed all the time, I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t remember things, and I couldn’t keep up in general. I once had a naturopathic doctor posit that I felt this way because my body‘s resources were completely depleted and couldn’t keep up to the intense amount of stress I was going/had gone through. This sentiment was echoed by other medical and mental health professionals to the point where I accepted it as fact.

But my mission now, with my divorce settlement set in stone and my life much more in order, is to rejuvenate my body, soul, and mind and to give myself the loving care I deserve and have so needed.

To that end, I’ve sought out help. I have an A-list team of mental health, medical, and wellness practitioners assisting me in my recovery. Since seeking help, I’ve made huge (read: GINORMOUS) strides in bettering my mental and physical health: I’m on medications that seem to be helping me, I have counsellors whom I trust implicitly, I have friends and family on my side, and I have healthier outlets for my anger, my sadness, and my anxiety.

Right now, I’m working, just a little bit, which is something I hadn’t been able to do for years.

Right now I’m dating, just a little bit, which is also something I couldn’t have handled even just a little while ago.

I’m relaxing, just a little bit, which is something I had forgotten how to do.

And I’m eating—I’m eating well!—which is really the crux of what I want to talk about here. Because, like many other people, I have body issues and food issues, and these issues get more or less out of hand depending on how well or not well I’m doing.

Story time:

Last autumn I lost 20 pounds. It just fell off me between October and November.

*POOF* 

It was gone.

Some people would rejoice at shedding 20 pounds, but I know (and I knew at the time) that the weight loss wasn’t healthy for me. This weight loss was the result of tremors and panic attacks; it was the result of my lack of sleep and my lack of exercise. Really, it was the result of a deep depression and severe anxiety that made me lose my appetite and lose my will to try.

Fast forward to a few months ago when I hired a clinical nutritionist named Trish to help me make a healthy eating plan. Trish is awesome and one of the things I love about her is that she gives her clients a life plan, not just a nutrition plan. So when we met we had a conversation about, and I received personalized recommendations for, sleep, exercise, nutrition, sex/birth control, mindfulness, and stress management. Trish and I extensively combed through my habits and my preferences, as well as my stresses and my struggles. She learned about the meds I’m on, my hormonal cycle…everything!

Did you know that gluten can significantly affect our mental health? I had no idea.

Did you know that people can have late onset lactose intolerance? It turns out I’m one of those lucky late-bloomers.

Did you know that soy can do incredible damage to your hormonal cycle? I actually knew this, but I honestly didn’t realize how much it had affected me (fyi: I was vegetarian for 8 years, so soy was a staple in my diet!).

There are lots of fad diets out there like Keto and Paleo and GAPS that try to convince you that they are the BEST and ONLY way to eat. I know many people feel successful at addressing their body/food/health issues by following one of these diets, but I truly subscribe to the belief that each of our bodies is different and therefore each of our bodies has different needs.

My body’s not your body, your body’s not my body, and everyone should stop treating them as if they are the same.

So Trish and I came up with this plan, which I’ve been implementing for over three months now and guess what? IT’S LITERALLY BEEN LIFE-CHANGING! 

I am NOT used to what it feels like to have a healthy body; I’m not familiar with having stamina and strength and fullness. I love these changes, but here’s the rub: I love how I’m feeling, but I don’t love my body right now.

Those 20 pounds I lost last autumn? They’re back, and then some. In fact, I’m heavier now (aside from during my pregnancies) than I have ever been before. My clothes all feel tight. My belly is rounder. My teeny boobs are definitely less teeny. My thighs are chunkier. And don’t even get me started on the increasing voluptuousness of my booty.

My instinct is to hate it. And I mean HATE it. Feminist that I am, I’ve still fallen prey to the body image standards that society dictates and the messaging I got from family and friends growing up. I’ll sheepishly admit that I’ve always prided myself on being thin. But fuck, it turns out I was living a thin-privileged existence because this weight is really, really getting to me!

I can try to rationalize it to myself however the hell I want and I still always come back to “I look fat.” I avoid looking into mirrors now, because “I look fat.” I struggle to choose my clothes each morning, because “I’m too fat.” I feel self-conscious and so, so body-aware all the time.

I feel like a huge, fucking whale.

And I know it’s bullshit. I know, intellectually, that this is a crock of shit that my anxious, sick, unhealthy self created. I know that what I’m saying is stupid, but I feel like it’s completely and utterly true.

At least, I did until this afternoon.

Today, I put on my favourite pair of soft, body-hugging leggings, and a form-fitting, ribbed tank top, because I knew I wasn’t leaving the house and I knew that I wanted to wear something comfortable (none of my actual pants fit me anyway!). My daughters and I were busy all morning so I forgot to worry about whether or not my tummy was protruding or my thighs looked lumpy. Then I saw myself in the bathroom mirror at lunch time and my gut instinct was to feel revulsion, which is really the point I was at with myself! I immediately felt repulsed by my own image, but then a second later, I had an epiphany:

What if this is what healthy looks like on me?

WHAAAA????

What if this is what healthy looks like on me?

What if this body, these extra fifteen pounds or so, what if this is the body I’m supposed to have in order to be strong and energetic and beautiful and sexy? Oh my god what if??

When I left my ex-husband, I chose to do so because I knew I’d rather explain to my children why I left than why I didn’t. And today I decided to tell myself that I would rather be healthier and happier with fifteen “extra” pounds than keep living the hollow, depleted life I had been surviving in for the last two decades. I would rather eat well and feel full, buy pants a size or two bigger, have seconds if I want them, and snack instead of falling prey to my hypoglycemia…I would rather be bigger and find a way to feel beautiful at THIS size, than keep starving myself.

This has been a profound realization for me. And it’s one that I know I’ll be digesting (pardon the pun…not!) for quite a while.

I want to love my new body. I mean, even when I was thin (thinner?) I didn’t like myself! So what the hell do I have to lose in embracing the changes that are happening, which are OVERWHELMINGLY positive, and accepting that I am now this way and that it’s completely, entirely, fucking alright.

Who gives a shit that I have a few extra pounds on me?

Who cares that it took me this long to start feeling better?

What matters most is that I’m reaping the benefits of paying attention and giving my body what it needs. What matters is that I’m striving to embrace the version of me that looks different, but feels good. What matters is that I’m edging towards thriving instead of just surviving, and if achieving that requires me to go out and buy a couple new pairs of pants, then it’s most definitely worth it.

Maybe this is what my body looks like when it’s healthy.

You know what? Fuck maybe.

This IS what my body looks like when it’s healthy! And I’m going to fucking embrace it.

xxJ

2018-07-29 18.14.45
It’s basically impossible to feel shitty about yourself when you’re wearing sequins and rocking your dad’s university engineering jacket.

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.

Au revoir!

When I left my husband, I realized that I had lost much more than a marriage.

Now I understand that successful relationships involve people growing together as they work through their issues, face difficulties, celebrate successes, and find a shared identity as a couple while maintaining autonomy as individuals. But when you are in a codependent relationship, things are very different and when I walked away from my marriage, I was struck by a deep sense of not knowing myself.

In my relationship with the man who became my ex-husband, I molded myself entirely to how he wanted, or how I thought he wanted, me to be. I stopped doing the things I enjoyed doing. I stopped saying how I felt about things. I questioned my intuition. I lost faith in my ability to do anything. I became exhausted by the effort of trying to maintain the status quo (i.e. keep the peace and/or keep my husband happy). I had done this in previous relationships and friendships before (had I ever!), and at the time of my separation, the only thing that felt true about my identity was that I had become an expert at being passively codependent.

Yay. 

I was so lost when I was left on my own. I didn’t know what I liked to do anymore or what I was capable of. I felt dumb and useless and tired. The overwhelming sense I experienced was of being a complete stranger to myself, and I spent more time feeling triggered or completely drained than anything else.

I’ve always had a high level of self-awareness. In fact, even in the worst periods of my life, when I was shrouded in intense depression and anxiety, when I was beholden to my abusers, when I was contemplating suicide, I still had the knowledge that something was wrong and that I needed something to change. But since I framed my identity using the parameters my boyfriend/husband/parents/friends gave me, I couldn’t determine what was true and what wasn’t.

After many years of counselling, an amazing mental health day program, a consistent treatment plan, incredible support from some of the quality people in my life, and an unwavering sense that I absolutely could NOT give up, I began to unpack my experiences and rediscover myself.

And I realized a few key things…

  1. I could recognize that there were parts of me from my past that were still true, but that my experiences had fundamentally changed me. The core parts of me were still there, but they had to be rediscovered and given a new, healthy framework to exist in.
  2. There were things I had considered “core” parts of myself that I needed to throw out and replace with other things that came from a place of authenticity.
  3. I couldn’t continue trying to be the person I felt other people thought I should be.
  4. I had the capacity to discover my identity again, if I chose to work at it.

So I began to work diligently at figuring out who the hell I was now and who I wanted to be post-separation, post-abuse, post-youth, post “Life 1.0.”

It started with identifying how I had allowed myself to be defined in the unhealthy relationships I had before. What, if anything, was true about me based on those parameters? I started trying to throw out old, bad habits… goodbye passivity! See ya later mandatory politeness! Au revoir overextending myself!

I also grabbed some of my “bad” traits that had been misused and misinterpreted, and created new, healthier frameworks for them. For example, I had bought into the belief that being sensitive and empathetic was a bad thing. It led me to be overly emotional, hot headed, and too accommodating. Not true! Being emotionally sensitive and highly empathetic is a gift! I just had to learn how to use it well! I renegotiated a new understanding of that quality in myself and have set to practicing this new way of thinking.

The second (or third?) step was to unearth good qualities that I wanted to embrace. This wasn’t an extensive list…more like, an exclusive one! I prioritized things and made sure I was focusing on a few, core traits that I felt were latent in my being, but which were also underrepresented or misunderstood. Basically, I dug up the good qualities in myself, like independence and determination, dusted them off, and put them back in my emotional tool-belt so that I could grab them instead when I went for one of my old, unhealthy, codependent habits.

And I realized that there were some skills I really wanted to have that I would need to work at embodying. I had to learn how to be assertive. I had to learn how to be alone. I had to learn to be angry in healthy ways. I’ve put time into teaching myself these new things, folding them into my identity as they become more and more familiar.

Leaving my emotional abuser was the catalyst in finding a new and healthy identity for myself. I am in no way complete, nor am I an expert in self-discovery. And I don’t expect myself to stay exactly as I am right now, but I do expect myself to keep working on living in a healthy way that supports a healthy sense of self.

It’s possible for you to do this too, no matter your relationship status, your history, or your future plans. Abused or not, we can all love and accept ourselves while striving to improve.

Your identity is not something that should be handed to you.

It may seem easier or more familiar to continue existing in the frameworks other people craft for you, but over the long term, you’ll do yourself a disservice in allowing others to define you.

So take a moment, envision yourself as you wish to be, and start taking steps, small or big, towards your a truer, more vivacious self!

xxJ

2018-08-23 18.46.25
The flowers in my garden, like this Teddy Bear Sunflower, remind me that I’m always growing and that sunshine can always be found if you look for it.

looks like/sounds like/feels like

People have a hard time understanding what emotional abuse is. In fact, I’m going to confidently state that most people really don’t get it.

Like, at all.

Because to most people domestic abuse = physical violence. To most people, domestic abuse is loud and nasty and BIG and leaves bruises and cigarette burns, broken lamps and smashed dishes and holes in walls.

And yes, sometimes (too often) domestic abuse is vociferous and physically violent. But what if I told you that domestic violence isn’t always physical? What if domestic abuse can be subtler? What if it’s relatively inconspicuous? What if the victim is so good at compensating and pretending that EVERYTHING IS OKAY ALRIGHT?! that no one has any idea what’s going on? (Not that I’ve ever done that before…)

I think emotional abuse is usually misunderstood because most people don’t realize that neglect or silence can be just as vicious as a punch in the face.

I  want to try to explain more about what emotional abuse is and how people may experience it, so I’ve drawn upon my past as a teacher and what follows is basically going to be like a kindergarten circle time where we all gather together to talk about what something “looks like/sounds like/feels like”. Except instead of discussing “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” or how a bean seed grows, we’re going to tackle emotional abuse. Decidedly not a kindergarten-appropriate topic (Or maybe it is? I mean, kids are never too young to learn about consent and showing respect!) but I’m hoping you’ll find it insightful.

So, come join me on the carpet. Please sit criss-cross applesauce with your hands in your lap, eyes up, and mouth closed…Ms. J is going to start the lesson…

Emotional abuse looks like:

  • Absence
  • Stifling
  • Codependence
  • Intense control
  • Financial control
  • Manipulation
  • Vindictiveness
  • Pettiness
  • Insecurity
  • Narcissism
  • Lack of intimacy
  • Withholding (affection, money, time, etc.)
  • Lack of consent
  • Isolation
  • Patterns of negative behaviour
  • Idealization
  • Chronic forgetfulness
  • Posturing
  • Grandiose gestures that are out of context or used as leverage
  • Forced affection
  • Saving face
  • Hypervigilance
  • Disdain
  • Perpetual indifference or apathy

Emotional abuse sounds like:

  • Shouting
  • Silence
  • Harsh words
  • Lies
  • Backhanded compliments
  • Gaslighting
  • Indignation
  • Name calling
  • Threats
  • Put downs
  • Reprimands or punishing
  • Criticisms
  • Punitive statements
  • Questioning
  • Comebacks
  • Rationalization of unhealthy things/ideas/behaviours
  • Scapegoating

Emotional abuse feels like:

  • Loneliness
  • Despair
  • Confusion
  • Anger
  • Craziness
  • Self-loathing
  • Low self-worth
  • Lack of purpose
  • Rigidity
  • Fear
  • Shame
  • Anxiety
  • Depression
  • Mood swings
  • Self-harm
  • Suicidal thoughts
  • Needing to be in control
  • Surreal
  • Duress
  • Pain
  • Exhaustion
  • Stress
  • Being overwhelmed
  • Worry

People who exhibit these behaviours (or other similar ones) chronically are perpetrators of abuse. Those who struggle continually because of these feelings and behaviours, are victims of abuse.

My own experience of abuse was insidious and cumulative and I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove that my experience was real.

Emotional abuse looks/feels/sounds real.

Abuse = abuse.

And accepting that helps people like me by letting us know that what we’re going through, or what we’ve been through, is just as real as a punch, kick, or slap.

You can now un-cross your legs and go have free-play time. Just don’t hog the Lego table and remember to use kind words with your friends.

xx J

2018-07-24 13.24.28
Feels like belly rub time for my pup, Kara.


Do you have anything you could add to the lists above? I’m sure there’s more that I’ve missed. Comment below and share your thoughts!

A Bundle of Sticks

I’m fortunate to live a very privileged life. Saying that makes me want to throw up a little bit BUT I’m leaning into my discomfort and admitting that as an upper-middle class white person living in the western world, I’ve been afforded an existence of material comfort and relative luxury. I’ve never had to question where my next meal was coming from, whether I’d have a roof over my head, if I could afford to go to university, or if my parents could help me out when I got into trouble financially or otherwise.

Materially speaking, my life is fantastic and because of this, I often feel guilty talking about my problems. When looking at what’s happening with things like the Black Lives Matter movement, LGBTQ2+ rights, the wars across the world, victims of natural disasters, the mistreatment of Indigenous Peoples, and so many other massive and terrible issues, my struggles seem like nothing. I mean, what right do I have to complain when I’m sitting on top amidst the current socio-economic and political climate around the world? What right do I have to talk about my problems when there is someone else who has it worse? How dare I not finish my asparagus when there are starving children in Africa? Amiright???

In the last two years, I’ve come out as a person who survived domestic abuse. In the last two years, I’ve practiced saying those words and owning them, adopting at first the persona of a victim, and now one of a survivor.

But…

Even as I’m writing this part of me wants to erase the whole damn thing and stop talking because I continue to be afraid that I will be called out as a liar or a phony or a drama queen.

Many people take their problems and sensationalize them. Or maybe I should say, many people in a position of privilege take their problems and sensationalize them. Real problems are not something you post on Instagram #firstworldproblems Real problems are ones that affect your life at its core; they undermine your sense of stability and your sense of self-worth. They may be violent and they may include trauma. They reveal your capacity to handle yourself in times of crisis, or they make you fall completely apart.

In my life, I experienced emotional abuse at the hands of a number of my romantic partners. Like I said, it’s hard for me to admit that, but I’m putting it here because I’ve realized that what I experienced, although it may seem subtle or questionable to outsiders, is part of a much bigger societal problem and therefore worthy of attention.

For example, the fact that my ex-husband can’t and won’t recognize that his behaviour was and remains abusive, speaks to the fact that he exists in a position of even greater privilege than my own. It’s a testament to the fact that no matter what financial threshold you exist in, our society as a whole is continuing to fail at addressing its systemic problem with misogyny. While the law where I live identifies emotional (“mental”) abuse as legitimate, my experience with the law showed me that many lawyers and judges and bureaucrats really don’t understand it or know how to handle it.

It’s not just that I need to talk about this for my own sense of catharsis; it’s not just about my story and my journey and my experience. This is about having more voices speaking up and talking about emotional abuse. It’s about engaging in meaningful conversations about all abuse. It’s about changing the landscape of our lives so that we feel more empowered to fight for change and help others. It’s about helping perpetrators of abuse, no matter what their status or rank in the world, learn how to behave differently. It’s about writing this all anyway, not just because I need to write it, but also because I can use my privilege to help others. It comes down to owning my story, knowing that it’s different from anyone else’s and recognizing that it’s still valid and still meaningful.

There’s an Aesop’s Fable called “The Bundle of Sticks” which tells the story of a father who, laying on his deathbed, hands his fours sons a bundle of sticks and asks them each to try breaking it apart. When none of the sons are able to break any sticks, the father unties the bundle and gives each son a single stick to break, which they do easily. The point of the story is to show that we are stronger united than we are apart. We can imagine that we’re each one little twig, snapped easily on our own, but bundled together, our twigs become much stronger. Lending my voice to the conversation about domestic abuse can only strengthen the bundle that so many in our society are trying to break, and I’m not going to let my stick get broken, even if I’m afraid to put it into the pile.

xxJ