It Goes On

I have always loved the wisdom of Robert Frost. He always managed to express things in such a profoundly simple way. Tonight I was scrolling through one of my Pinterest boards, which is a board filled with quotes that somehow resonate with me, in one way or another, and I came across one such profoundly simple Robert Frost quote:

                                          "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

And go on, it does. Even when a parent, or a friend, or a sibling, or a child dies. Even when a family member deserts you. Even when the person you love more than anyone else in the world betrays you. Even when those who are supposed to protect you, lead you right into extreme danger. Even when the pain- physical or emotional- seems more than you can bear.

Life goes on. Even when we don't want it to.

Life is fragile, yes. It can be gone in an instant. But it is also tenacious, and harder to snuff out than we sometimes think.  One of the scientists in Jurrasic Park says, "Life always finds a way." Life goes on. And sometimes the only thing to do is to ride it out. Let go and let the current take you where it will, until you finally have the chance to regain some sense of control. When things get rough for me, sometimes I'll answer a "how are you" with, "I'm alive." Usually, the response is, "Well that's, a plus." Or I'll hear someone say, "Well at least you're alive." And here's the thing: it can be hard for people to accept that, sometimes, that's really not what we want. That sometimes, we would actually prefer to switch places with someone who died young but didn't want to. Our society has a hard time accepting that sometimes, just living can be so overwhelming, we'd rather not. And that in some cases, waking up in the morning isn't what we wanted to happen. But yet, we do wake up. Our lives do go on. We try to keep going. To keep breathing. To stop the freefall.

Sometimes, the best we can do is, to reference a previous post, "fake it till you make it." Because sometimes, like it or not, life does in fact, just keep going. And all we can do is pretend to be okay with it until we finally do make our peace with the fact that life, as Robert Frost put it, goes on. 

But What If It Does?

Why not? It's a simple question. We ask it a million times in the span of our lives. But sometimes it can be more profound than the two simple words seem together. It's a great question to challenge us out of our comfort zones. Sometimes it's harder to come up with an answer to that than we might think, or even like. We might want an easy answer, so we don't have to push ourselves to do something that may be daunting. And yet, at other times, we come up with far more "reasons" than we should.

This question has been on my mind a lot lately. While visiting my friends Jerusha and Christen on my way to Denver, we had some fantastic talks about our lives and journeys; journeys out of ATI, to finding out who we are as individuals, to where we are now, to where we're going. As one might imagine would be the case when three INTJs get together and talk, the subject matter got deep. We're talking Mariana Trench deep. Okay, maybe not quite, but close. During dinner on my second night there, 6th grader Ben gave each one of us- his parents, his sisters, and me- a Dove chocolate piece. As some of you might know, on each Dove chocolate wrapper, is some sort of message. We all read ours to each other, and I got a little sad when I read mine: "Learn something new about a loved one." It was a significant and sad date for me, as mentioned in a previous post, and it bummed me out a bit. Christen got up and brought me his, and said he'd trade me. The message? You guessed it. The simple yet profound question: "Why not?" He and Jerusha and I all laughed- it was a perfect question for me based on the conversations we had already had. It was a simple challenge to push myself out of my comfort zone. We talked about it more after the kids had gone to bed, and it has stayed on my mind ever since.

I have been asking myself this question multiple times a day since Thursday. It has been one of my meager attempts to try and get myself to move forward. To keep thinking about the future. About developing myself. About moving past my own fears and comfort zones. And yet, despite my best efforts, the wounded part of me- the part that's still aching and throbbing and bleeding- comes up with more answers to that question than it should. But most of all, I'm bombarded with desperate and terrified answers in regards to one specific question, more than all the others: Why not open yourself to the possibility of loving again? Because I won't be able to trust anything. Because I'll be terrified the whole time. Because I might get my heart broken again. Because he might do the same thing the last one did. Because this time almost killed me. Because I can't do this again. Because it's safer by myself. Because I'll be so afraid, I'll screw it up myself. Because...because...because... They keep coming until I'm literally in tears. Every time.

But then I'm reminded of another question. An excellent companion question for when we're more prolific with the answers to "why not?" than we should be. This question comes from another great friend, Taylor. He was never in ATI, but he did go through an awful divorce a couple of years ago, and he gets where I'm coming from in a way that not everyone else does. He usually is the one who sees the worst side of me right now. The man deserves a medal for not running away screaming. But he often counters my frantic "what if?" questions with another simply profound question; this time, a question that is often overlooked by people. I ask, "What if I try another relationship and get my heart broken again?" His question? What if you don't? But what if I go through more heartbreaks and still end up alone at the end of the day? But what if you don't? What if nothing works out and I never get that relationship that I want? But what if you do? The question takes on different forms, depending on the fear being voiced. But the effect is always the same: What if the worst case scenario doesn't happen? What if I get exactly what I want- or at least something very close? What if it all does work out the way I want it? Will all those fearful answers hold me back from chasing after the possibilities? From trying to live my life to the fullest?

I hope someday I won't be so quick with the answers to "why not?" That's something I'm going to work on, because it's an excellent place to be in life. But while I'm getting there, whenever that wounded part of me comes back with a million reasons why not and a million questions to the effect of, "what if it doesn't work out the way I want it to?" I'm going to counter it with that other question: but what if it does? 

The Life of a Victor

Obligatory Spoiler Warning: Major Mockingjay II spoilers. Read at own risk.

My friend Rowena and I went to see Mockingjay: II yesterday. We'd been planning to see it together during this trip since August, since it was something I had been planning on seeing with him, as the celebration of the one year anniversary of our meeting. I really didn't want to see it alone, but I also didn't want to not go. I have loved the Hunger Games since I read the books right before the first movie came out. Suzanne Collins managed to write a series that resonated, not just with me, but also with many other ATI survivors. She also captured PTSD incredibly well, and that was consistently nailed in the movies. Seeing this one in the theater was important for me in my recovery and moving forward. And I'm so glad I did.

As with the other three movies, this one was done incredibly well. I wouldn't have changed a thing. I remember when I saw Catching Fire, I realized something I hadn't gotten from reading the books: Katniss and Gale ultimately didn't work out because she had been through the hell of the Hunger Games, and there was too much that Gale just couldn't get. Peeta, on the other hand, had been there with her. He wound up with PTSD from it too. He KNEW what Katniss had lived through. He had, too. And it gave them an understanding that was so necessary. I remember thinking after that, I was looking for a Peeta. Someone who had been through the hell of ATI, getting out, and rebuilding. And if not that, at least someone who can somehow have some understanding of what it means to live with PTSD. Because, while it doesn't have to define a person's life, it is, regardless, a significant part of it. While we can work to overcome it, and not allow it to rule us, it is still going to be there. It's not going to go away.

Through Catching Fire and Mockingjay: I, it is easy to see the PTSD in Katniss and Peeta, as well as other victors. Mockingjay: II was no different. In this last movie, Katniss is dealing with even more than ever before. And her disgust with life, Snow and the Capital, and even with Coin and those who were supposed to be the good guys, overwhelmed her, worsening her already severe depression. Near the end of the movie, Effie is talking to Katniss about what her new life, post Capital and post revolution will look like. Effie said something to Katniss that really resonated with me: "I hope you finally find it. The life of a victor." It's what people have been saying to me for months. But, like Katniss, I wasn't in a place where I could really envision that. The weight of everything I was dealing with was so crushing, I didn't even really want to survive. Katniss wouldn't have been opposed to dying during all of what she went through. It would have been a relief. I felt the same way. And being stuck in Cape for so long was in some ways like if Katniss had been trapped inside one of the Arenas. Just stuck, in a living nightmare.

Upon arriving at the home of my friends Jerusha and Christen in Kansas last Wednesday, I discovered that I was feeling a lot better than I had in months. By the time I left for Denver on Friday, I was actually starting to look forward to moving there. And by the time I saw the movie on Saturday, I was ready to hear Effie's statement to Katniss, and finally take it to heart. Yes. I have been through a lot of hell in my life. In fact, more than a lot of people I know. A lot has been taken from me. I have been beaten down and scarred, over and over. But the victory isn't in going on and living a perfect life. Katniss and the other victors were promised wealth, fame, and complete happiness after winning their Hunger Games. Of course, it was a lie. And then came the revolution, and the whole country was torn apart, and Katniss's life was further shattered. But she came out of it on the other side. When Effie talked to her, she wasn't quite ready to conceive that she could, in fact, live a victorious life. The weight of all she had been through was still so crushing. But I was just then finally in a place where I could hear that. The life of a victor. Not one who has leapt all obstacles in a single bound and crushed all opponents unscathed. No. One who has been beaten down again and again until drawing a single breath seems overwhelming. And yet still manages to take that breath. And finally get back up. And let the wounds heal, and keep going.

Finally, they show Katniss and Peeta a few years later, with their two young children. Though the scene was slightly adapted from the book, the lines were nearly word for word. Katniss's infant is sleeping in her arms, and wakes up crying. Katniss asks her if she had a nightmare; that she has them too, sometimes. Then she said, "Someday I'll explain it to you. The nightmares. Why they came, why they won't ever go away, and how I survived." I started sobbing, right there in my seat. It was so overwhelming. The nightmares. Yes. They are a classic part of PTSD. They sometimes have periods where they are few and far between. But they rarely go away completely. Life events and triggers can bring them back more easily than we would like. I struggle with nightmares. I have for years. And I probably always will, to some extent. They likely won't ever completely go away. But I survived. When Katniss said that, I was overwhelmed with emotion, in a way I very rarely am when I watch a movie. I'm just barely at the beginning of getting to a point where I can see survival. And maybe a little more. And yes, I will always be scarred. Terrible things happened. I can't change that. I can't make it unhappen. I can't remove the emotional and psychological, and even neurological scars those things left. They'll always be there. And the nightmares will wax and wane, but not really go away. But what matters is the surviving part. The moving forward. The building a new life. The creating a new future. It's not an easy life; it's not a glamorous one. But it is something very important:

                                                                                     The life of a victor. 

Keep Holding On

Go ahead, smirk if you like. I make no apologies for my unveiled Avril Lavigne reference. This song has gotten me through a lot over the years, and it's been playing through my head today. I was supposed to be gone. I was supposed to leave for Cincinnati on Saturday so I wouldn't have to be in this town over the next few weeks. Battling severe depression is hard, in and of itself. But when there are specific traumas and circumstances perpetuating the depression, rather than simply a severe physical chemical imbalance, it makes it even harder. Friday night, I had my car all packed up and ready to go, because I wasn't able to handle being here in Cape, and the closer I got to this coming Thursday, the worse it got. Finally, it became necessary for my mental and physical well being for me to leave.

And then, with the car all packed, I threw out my back.

The more time passed, the more it hurt, and I realized, I wasn't going anywhere for a few days. My parents had just gotten home to Cincinnati when I did it. They were gone. I was alone, and I threw out my back. I was going to be stuck in my nightmarish bubble for days. And I cried. I have spent the last few days just trying to keep holding on. At times it feels overwhelming, and it all comes pouring out in rather impressive sobs. Other times, I just try to stay occupied- watching Doctor Who, grading and interacting with my online classes, putting in more resumes, and arguing with people on Facebook about The Cup or Syrian refugees or Muslims in general or the primaries (sometimes for sheer entertainment value more than anything else!).

Today, I felt like I was barely holding on. I realized I probably won't get out of here until Wednesday, and even that isn't positive. The thought of waking up in this town on Thursday is overwhelming. Mockingjay II comes out on Thursday. We were supposed to go to that Thursday night. We'd been planning that for months. We met at the Thursday night premiere of Mockingjay I, and this was supposed to kick of the start of our one year anniversary. We had so many plans for this holiday season. It's overwhelming. This particular week last year was so good. We had snow, I met him, I got to spend a lot of time with a friend, my friendship with whom sadly wound up as a casualty of my breakup. I was just starting to get better after my accident, and things were really looking so hopeful. I had no idea of the hell that lay ahead. So I really just needed to be gone this week. Not stuck moving between my bed and couch in my apartment in total isolation with way more time on my hands to think than is good right now. The more the day progressed, the harder it got. This song kept going through my head, and I wound up with the visual of Christina hanging on for her life over the Dauntless chasm. And right now, that's what I feel like. I feel like I'm hanging on for my life, water spraying my face and making my hands slip, nothing but rocks a hundred feet below. Like Christina, I have plenty of friends cheering me on, urging me to hang on. But it's hard. Especially when I can't see what's ahead.

Last year, I made it through the difficult time brought on by my car accident by telling myself things would be so much better by this time next year. And here I am, not better, but decidedly worse. Last year, I could see the road ahead of me, and it was so promising. It made holding on so much easier. This year, I look ahead and I can't see anything, and I'm in so much more pain. Making it worse, it's not just pain from one thing, but from a whole barrage of things that have kept hitting me since the end of May. My friend Chilan told me last night that all she could do right now is facepalm and cringe for me as each new thing happens, just waiting for things to let up. And I'm just hanging here over the chasm, as the metal grate digs into my hands and the water makes them slip, with zero idea what is ahead of me and if things are going to calm down soon or not. So I wait. I wait, and I hope that somehow, the next 32 years are going to be better for me than the previous 32 have been. I have no way of knowing whether they will be or not. But I guess for now, for a little while longer at least, I will stay here, and keep holding on. 

When The Light Goes Out

I'm someone who always has a plan. Those plans may change, but I can always see what's ahead of me. I can always imagine where I'll be in 5 or 10 years. If you asked me at the beginning of May, where I saw myself in 5 years, I would tell you that it would likely be one of two things: 1. Working on my Ph.D. in history and married to my then boyfriend, or 2. Still living in Cape, probably still teaching at the university, and married to my then boyfriend. It was what I wanted, and it was what he supposedly wanted, and it's what a lot of his friends thought he wanted too.

At the end of May, the Duggar scandal broke. Like many ex-ATIers with PTSD, I wound up triggered. ATI was everywhere, and I couldn't get away from it. It was in the papers, on the radio, on TV, on magazine covers, all over the internet- I even heard people talking about it at the gas station. I would have had to seclude myself in a cabin somewhere to get away from all the talk about the "Duggar's cult." The month of June was very difficult for me, as I tried to deal with what was going on in my head regarding all of that. I can't explain it, but at that point, I knew I didn't want to pursue a Ph.D. in history. I didn't know what I wanted to do anymore, and that bothered me. The one thing I was absolutely sure of though, was that I wanted to marry my boyfriend, who kept assuring me he wanted the same thing. I had no reason to think otherwise. I knew that we could figure things out together, and that was great.

Then everything got very suddenly, and painfully, turned upside down. Again, trying not to go into too much detail, he said he needed time to think, to figure things out. That was awful, but I truly thought we would be able to work things out. As did a lot of other people. But while I was waiting, I realized I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to get a degree in counseling and work with people with PTSD and dealing with cult recovery. It was a good plan, and I started working out the details. After a month of waiting, he told me he was moving on. I didn't understand- I honestly still have trouble understanding- but I tried to keep going. Things were awful, but I started taking prerequisites to get into the MA in counseling program. I could still see what was ahead, though it was vastly different than I had imagined just a couple months before.

I was getting a lot better by the middle of September, when the shit hit the fan. Something else absolutely heart wrenching happened, and I made the decision to move to Denver. As I have said in previous posts, I needed to start over. To build a new life in a place where I could truly become more myself. But unfortunately, bad things kept happening, and in such quick succession that it was impossible to really deal with anything well. The best I could do was to wake up, keep doing my job, and stay alive. But I kept slipping. By the first few days in November, I no longer knew what I wanted. I got lost. The faint light at the end of my very dark and very long tunnel went out. While the initial desperation I experienced with that has faded to a general melancholy, the light has yet to appear again. I know who I am, but I no longer have any clue as to what I want. And I have no idea how to handle that. I'm still planning on moving to Denver in four weeks, but even that...I don't know. I don't have a job yet, and the friend who was supposed to help me move may not be able to get the time off of work anymore.

But do I want to move to Denver? I don't know. Do I want to live somewhere else? I don't know. I know I don't want to live in Cincinnati or Cape. If I had a job lined up in Denver, maybe that would help me out. But right now, I look even 6 months in the future, and I see nothing. Five years? absolutely nothing.

So what do you do when the light goes out and you have no idea when it's going back on? Well, I guess you just put one foot in front of the other. You keep on keeping on. You trust that at some point, that light is going to go back on. That instead of falling off a ledge into a deep bottomless abyss, you're going to get to where you can see the light again. So that's what I'm doing. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm hoping that at some point, there will be a light. I have no idea what that will look like. Absolutely no clue. But when that light goes out, you move to the side of the tunnel, put your hand on the walls, and put one foot in front of the other.

Faking It

One of our favorite cliches as Americans is "fake it till you make it." We usually use this phrase when someone is in a difficult situation, and they have no choice but to successfully deal with the challenge or fail. And in some cases, failure isn't even an option. The person may be in a situation in which he or she actually has zero ability to escape, and "making it" is the only choice. This then leaves the person with two options: 1. Fake it until you actually come out on the other side, or 2. Go insane. Literally. There's a whole list of mental disorders that come from someone being unable to cope with the situation. Some are more serious than others. And sometimes someone ends up both making it and ending up with some sort of mental disorder in a combination of making it and going a little crazy. PTSD being a prime example of that.

Paradoxically, sometimes it is necessary to stop faking it, in order to fake it. No, I didn't mistype. Sometimes we have to remove the masks we have become comfortable wearing, in order to hold it together long enough to pretend like we're functional human beings long enough to actually become one. I'm done trying to pretend about certain things. I'm done glossing over, and hoping no one will notice. Some may question the wisdom in me putting this out there as I'm trying to find a new job in a new place, but I have spent so long wearing certain masks that I really don't care. If being real keeps me from a great job, so be it.

I'm not okay. I'm just not. My ability to cope keeps diminishing. This entire post is a really screwed up attempt to fake it. Because really, I have two choices right now: 1. Fake it until I actually do make it, or 2. Go insane. In my case, end up so far down the Depression and PTSD rabbit hole that I can't even pretend like I'm pretending to be a functional human being. I am one small bump right now away from Option #2. The issue for me right now isn't courage- it's not about being Dauntless or not. My issue is pain and enough cognitive dissonance to drive an ESFP absolutely nuts (my friends who speak Myers-Briggs will get that). Yeah. I get up every day, I get dressed, I do my best to hide the puffy eyes with makeup and glasses, and I do enough holding my breath and gritting my teeth to keep me from bursting into sobs in public. I post my assignments, I give my lectures, I grade my papers. I put in job applications and resumes, and make emails about assignments. I pack a box or two. I put a smile on my face and tell countless lies every day when people ask how I'm doing in regular conversation. I don't want to make it. But I really don't have much of a choice here.

Last Fall, when I had my car accident, I kept pushing myself forward, determined that it wasn't going to beat me. I spent the better part of a month playing "Don't Put Dirt On My Grave Just Yet" from Nashville on repeat and belting it out at the top of my lungs. It worked. I kept going. I made it. But I had a lot of fight in me at that point. Today, I decided to start playing "Fight Song" over and over until I believe it. It actually fits really well, minus the fight part. I feel like I have no fight left in me. I feel like, despite dealing with multiple traumas and challenges in my life, and despite having PTSD since I was three, and yet still managing to have a good job and a Master's degree, and despite making it through all of those things, I finally encountered something that managed to actually break me. Or maybe not one single thing, but the right combination of bad things in a short period. I'm just...tired. Tired of 32 years of constantly fighting back. But I really don't have much of a choice.

So I'm pretending. I post things on Facebook as though I'm not broken. For the first time, I'm doing 30 days of thankfulness on my wall. I never did that before because it's the kind of touchy-feely whatever that INTJs tend to abhor. Day 4 and I'm almost tapped. It's really hard to find things to be grateful for when you are so low that all you honestly want is to go to sleep and never wake up. I think today's took me a solid 10 minutes to come up with. My cousin Anne has been one of my biggest cheerleaders in the last few years. At the end of September, she posted this quote to my wall: "She never seemed shattered; to me, she was a breathtaking mosaic of the battles she's won." (Matt Baker). I don't feel like a mosaic right now. I feel like all the shattered pieces that have just been broken and left in a heap, unable to put themselves back together. But all I can do right now, is pretend I believe it. Or at least pretend to pretend I believe it.

I remember explaining to some people what an actual 10 on the physical pain scale feels like: It's physical pain that is so bad, it is impossible to see beyond it. Pain that quite literally blinds you to anything other than what you're feeling- that your only desire is to either die, or have the pain removed, immediately. That's where I am on the emotional pain chart. I honestly cannot see beyond this. Even the prospect of Denver cannot excite me right now. It feels like this pain is all there is. And yet, I'm pretending to see beyond. But yeah, it's one big act right now. But that's all the option I have at the moment. Maybe someday, it won't feel like this anymore. Maybe someday, things will seem better. Maybe someday things will be better. I don't know. But for now, all I can do is pretend I'm pretending that I know things will be okay.