I sit here this evening, thinking about what an improvement today has been, over last July 4th. I remember waking up on July 1st, after a rough month of depression and PTSD issues triggered by all of the Duggar drama, thinking that July was going to be great. It was my birthday month, I had a brand new puppy, I had some great things planned, and I had this amazing boyfriend that I knew was with me through thick and thin, forever. But that afternoon, my whole world turned upside-down, and thus began the string of events responsible for creating this blog. The boyfriend that I knew would never ever leave me, came to me and did exactly that, telling me he needed some time. He broke up with me, but left me with every reason to believe he wanted to work things out. I honestly thought things would work out with us, but I was nevertheless devastated, confused, even angry. It was a pain deeper than any I had ever felt, and being a chronically ill 30-something cult survivor with PTSD, whose brother died when she was 9, and who has zero relationship with her own sister, that is saying something.
A few days later, on July 4th, I found myself in Northern Kentucky, staying with my parents and our cousin Ethel, with my lively puppy, Rue. I spent the afternoon at Barnes and Noble with Tamara, one of the people always responsible for keeping me sane, and my third mom (yes, there's a story there). We were looking at books on anxiety disorder, so I could learn better how to control it. My parents went to their usual 4th of July picnic at a friend's summer home, and invited me to come along, but I just couldn't. There were too many people there who had known me my whole life and would ask too many times how I was doing, and several who would ask how things were going with Z. I just couldn't do it. Any time I thought of or talked about him, or anyone asked about him, I felt as though I had been stabbed in the gut, and it took all the strength I could muster not to double over, clutching my stomach, sobbing, and gasping for air. At that point, I was doing well to manage to eat three bites per meal. I was so upset, I couldn't eat. I'm normally a stress eater. But in the worst moments of my life, I have been pushed beyond, to the point of not being able to eat at all. The very thought of eating made me feel ill.
So I stayed home. I laid on my bed at Ethel's house, and FB chatted with a good friend of mine (you know who you are), who was dealing with her own relationship crisis at the time. Just a couple weeks before, we both had been very happily in relationships with the guys we were sure were The Ones. And there we were on the 4th of July, me in this unsure and devastating place of being broken up but not sure what that meant, and she, being in this place of knowing she needed to break up with him, but not wanting to. So we talked, for hours. We talked about the pain, of love found unexpectedly, and of love in jeopardy. The time I didn't spend chatting with her or tending to my needy puppy, I spent reading my books on anxiety. It was hands down the worst 4th of July I have ever had in my life. I just wanted to die.
Fast forward to this year. Andy was on call for work, so we couldn't venture far from his house. But I kept telling him that anything would be an improvement over last year. And it was. It wasn't the most exciting 4th of July I have ever had, by any means. But I got to spend the day with a guy who loves me, and who also understands that this time is rough for me. The last month or so, leading up to July 1st has been rough, and has involved more tears than I would like to admit. But he has asked me to be honest and not hold things in, and I have decided to be brave and honest. I would like to say that now, being with Andy, all of that pain and confusion and anger is gone. It's not. I'm not sure it ever will be fully. I'm not sure a person ever fully recovers from something like this. But I have someone who only expects me to be human, and so far, I have been able to muster up the courage and humility to accept that. And today had surprisingly few twinges. Andy put a goat roast in the crock pot for dinner, and it was delicious. While he worked, I watched tv and spent an outrageous amount of time napping. At the end of the day, he asked, "Better day than last year?" I was honestly able to say, "Yes, much."
It's amazing to me how much healing has taken place. And at the same time, it's amazing to me how little healing has taken place. But regardless, I'm well on my way to being even healthier than I am now. As we celebrate our nation's independence from Britain today, I also celebrate my own. The more I heal, the more independent I become, and the less my well being has anything to do with the events of last year. And it's not just that. Eleven years ago, I wasn't free. I was stuck in my parents' home, in a cult that I was working hard to escape, but couldn't, just yet. I was also far more ill than I am now. My undiagnosed celiac disease was wreaking havoc on my body. It was hard. I wasn't free. But today, I am gaining freedom from the grief of the last year, I am free from the cult and the unhealthy grasp of my parents (though today they deeply regret ever getting involved in all that), and while I'm a long way from healthy, I'm far, far healthier than I was a few years ago.
So today, I celebrate my independence from all of the things of my past. No, it's not total, and likely never will be. But it's a process. And as long as I have the courage to keep pressing on in that process, I'm doing just fine.
A few days later, on July 4th, I found myself in Northern Kentucky, staying with my parents and our cousin Ethel, with my lively puppy, Rue. I spent the afternoon at Barnes and Noble with Tamara, one of the people always responsible for keeping me sane, and my third mom (yes, there's a story there). We were looking at books on anxiety disorder, so I could learn better how to control it. My parents went to their usual 4th of July picnic at a friend's summer home, and invited me to come along, but I just couldn't. There were too many people there who had known me my whole life and would ask too many times how I was doing, and several who would ask how things were going with Z. I just couldn't do it. Any time I thought of or talked about him, or anyone asked about him, I felt as though I had been stabbed in the gut, and it took all the strength I could muster not to double over, clutching my stomach, sobbing, and gasping for air. At that point, I was doing well to manage to eat three bites per meal. I was so upset, I couldn't eat. I'm normally a stress eater. But in the worst moments of my life, I have been pushed beyond, to the point of not being able to eat at all. The very thought of eating made me feel ill.
So I stayed home. I laid on my bed at Ethel's house, and FB chatted with a good friend of mine (you know who you are), who was dealing with her own relationship crisis at the time. Just a couple weeks before, we both had been very happily in relationships with the guys we were sure were The Ones. And there we were on the 4th of July, me in this unsure and devastating place of being broken up but not sure what that meant, and she, being in this place of knowing she needed to break up with him, but not wanting to. So we talked, for hours. We talked about the pain, of love found unexpectedly, and of love in jeopardy. The time I didn't spend chatting with her or tending to my needy puppy, I spent reading my books on anxiety. It was hands down the worst 4th of July I have ever had in my life. I just wanted to die.
Fast forward to this year. Andy was on call for work, so we couldn't venture far from his house. But I kept telling him that anything would be an improvement over last year. And it was. It wasn't the most exciting 4th of July I have ever had, by any means. But I got to spend the day with a guy who loves me, and who also understands that this time is rough for me. The last month or so, leading up to July 1st has been rough, and has involved more tears than I would like to admit. But he has asked me to be honest and not hold things in, and I have decided to be brave and honest. I would like to say that now, being with Andy, all of that pain and confusion and anger is gone. It's not. I'm not sure it ever will be fully. I'm not sure a person ever fully recovers from something like this. But I have someone who only expects me to be human, and so far, I have been able to muster up the courage and humility to accept that. And today had surprisingly few twinges. Andy put a goat roast in the crock pot for dinner, and it was delicious. While he worked, I watched tv and spent an outrageous amount of time napping. At the end of the day, he asked, "Better day than last year?" I was honestly able to say, "Yes, much."
It's amazing to me how much healing has taken place. And at the same time, it's amazing to me how little healing has taken place. But regardless, I'm well on my way to being even healthier than I am now. As we celebrate our nation's independence from Britain today, I also celebrate my own. The more I heal, the more independent I become, and the less my well being has anything to do with the events of last year. And it's not just that. Eleven years ago, I wasn't free. I was stuck in my parents' home, in a cult that I was working hard to escape, but couldn't, just yet. I was also far more ill than I am now. My undiagnosed celiac disease was wreaking havoc on my body. It was hard. I wasn't free. But today, I am gaining freedom from the grief of the last year, I am free from the cult and the unhealthy grasp of my parents (though today they deeply regret ever getting involved in all that), and while I'm a long way from healthy, I'm far, far healthier than I was a few years ago.
So today, I celebrate my independence from all of the things of my past. No, it's not total, and likely never will be. But it's a process. And as long as I have the courage to keep pressing on in that process, I'm doing just fine.
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