Finding My Voice

The last few weeks I’ve been on edge, sitting on a cliff and holding my breath. Hyper conscious of every inhale and and shake, every nerve in my body. I’ve felt more happy than I thought possible and more sadness than I have before. It’s trying, feeling two polar opposite emotions at the same time.

I’ve started going to therapy. Which is great and awful simultaneously. Great because I’ve been able to untangle a lot of fine pieces of yarn in my thinking, but awful because I’m a whirlwind of emotions as I piece together my life and remember more and more things I’d like to forget.

Psychologist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross identified the way humans process grief in five stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. Now I did study Psychology in High School and College, but never truly caught on to the whole five stages. Mostly because, as I am now realizing, I opted to go straight for depression, not purposely. But I was trapped within events, and social pressures, and personal pressure, and people pleasing. I didn’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill. I didn’t want to be a burden, which left me alone to carry all of my burdens.

Therapy has encouraged and pushed me to find my way back to those very first stages of grief, and I’ve realized in my efforts to protect other people from what I was feeling, it only encouraged mindsets of isolation, fear and anxiety. My life had becoming a breeding ground for every negative, unresolved emotion and I didn’t even realize it.

I’ve tried in these last few weeks to begin taking steps to properly heal. And in the process I’ve encountered more disdain from loved ones. I’m not one for speaking up for myself, but for the first time in my life I tried, and I was immediately shut down. I’ve shame spiraling through loneliness, anger and confusion. It was as if as soon as I made a step to free myself from grief, I was met by a massive do not enter sign. This has taken a toll on me emotionally, and if you ask my boyfriend he’d tell you that I’m a glass bottle, ready to burst and shatter at annnyyyy moment. He says it’s a good thing, I’m not so sure.

Despite what has happened, I’ve decided to go ahead with being brave anyway. For years I have compromised my joy for the sake of protecting those that I love, in an effort to keep the peace and not “rock the boat”. And that’s great and all but it actually isn’t. For people who have experienced abuse and trauma, the most important thing to hold on to in that process is their voice. And I’ve allowed my voice to be the voice of reason for everyone but my self. I made concessions to others’ fears and experiences as if I had none of my own. That’s has suffocated me, and additionally suffocated my relationships with people.

The hardest thing to do, when you’re facing great loss or grief, is to find your voice. And I’ve seen the quotes about not letting anyone steal my voice and yadda yadda And I thought I had done that. But instead I was screaming behind a wall that formed as a 2,000 foot enclosure. Inside the wall are spiders and bugs and hungry lions and bears, eager to eat me alive. While outside there’s banners and streamers and balloons everywhere. Funnel cakes and cotton candy and all the things that welcome people to stop and stare and take and be merry. Unbeknownst to the visitors, there’s a side door for anyone and everyone to enter in, if only they’d look past the candy and music and decorations. The music and laughter is so loud that no one would have a clue that’s there’s a screaming girl just behind that giant wall, limbs being mauled by everything that wishes to destroy her.

Therapy is giving me a voice. It is taking the wall down, brick by brick. And with each brick that is removed, the guttural screams are finally reaching the outside of that wall, and like an earthquake, the cries are shaking down the streamers, causing the ground to rumble and shake, and brick by brick the wall does fall.

We all have a voice. Some a whisper, some a roar.

If you can roar, roar for others.

If you can only whisper, keep trying.

Every roar started small.

M.L. Shanahan

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Finding My Voice

Pretty Injuries

Here’s a whole fluster cuck of feelings but it’s honest.

I don’t have pretty injuries.

This might sound coarse and unkind but I genuinely don’t mean for it to be. But I don’t. I don’t have injuries that come in pretty packages and bows, like “my boyfriend of two weeks broke up with me” sort of injury. Or the “I broke my leg and gunna need a cast for 12 weeks” sort of injury. I don’t have any pretty injuries. The ones you can talk about without feeling too vulnerable and exposed. But I wish that I did.

Yesterday I had a flashback. And this specific one hasn’t happened for years. You can guess how surprised I was when I went from being happy and calm to one of my most epic meltdowns in a year. I’ll spare you the details of what I saw but not of what I felt. I felt it coming and I had about 5 seconds to recognize what was happening before everything went down hill. Thankfully my guy is kind and patient and understands but honestly it was like my brain reverted to 18 year old me and I didn’t even recognize myself. I wanted to throw up and I wanted to run.

I think the hardest part about trauma is the endless silence that comes with it. It’s not something you bring up over coffee, and it’s heart wrenching to want to just tell someone how you’re feeling when it’s a morbid topic of conversation. It also feels pretty awful when you finally thought you were ok, only to realize that you actually aren’t. Yesterday, for the first time in three years it happened again. And I don’t feel like myself, and I don’t recognize myself. I feel a little on edge and more than a little depressed.

These are the parts of me I’d love to be able to explain away. I’d love to not have anything to do with them and to be honest I’d be stoked if having my memory wiped was an option. But it’s not. It’s not a pretty injury. It’s not table conversation. It doesn’t have the advocacy the sexual harassment. It makes most people uncomfortable and it’s a lonely, invisible injury. And I don’t understand it and today I hate it and I have wished for more than one moment that I was anyone but me, anywhere but here, feeling anything but this.

Pretty Injuries

It’s The Little Things…

It’s been a while since I’ve written, mostly because I’ve had a lot going on and haven’t had time to process. But as the sunsets and gentle autumn breezes float through my window, as the warm of candles and the smell of apple cider and cinnamon sink in processing becomes easier. I feel like a princess on my bed of white sheets. I feel like I’m in my own world where I can escape. Or come back from a long time of escaping.

Do you have those people in your life that make you feel so welcome and unwanted at the same time? Like I love you, but please don’t need anything from me, or please realize I’m only going to let you in this much? I do. I feel boxed out of most people In my immediate world. This is part my fault due to bad decisions I’ve made that have made me want to pull away. But fault is never one sided. And this seems like the hardest hurdle to overcome. I’m not sure if I have the energy in me to overcome these hurdles anymore, or even the desire to do so.

They only let you in as much as they want to let you in, but want you to be an open book. I don’t understand that. You ask of something you cannot and refuse to give.

But it’s in the little things. Because sometimes you just want to show up in their instagram photo more than once every two years. And it sounds so silly but feels so real to me. Maybe it’s because of where I’m at. It’s like I’ve lost my voice altogether and don’t know how to speak anymore. I don’t want to speak anymore. I don’t want to try. I want to melt into the white of the sheets, into the smell of cinnamon and fresh candles. Hide behind the dark of the curtains and stay hidden. It’s not all the time, but right now it is. i just wanna melt away.

It’s The Little Things…