Back in the Pool

I feel like I'm on the verge of that drowning feeling again. I recently read a post from a blogger who also struggles with depression about how she has been teetering, wondering if she's fallen back into depression. Her descriptions of the endless slew of negative thoughts and feelings both overcome you and leave you wondering if you're actually feeling depressed or stressed or what.

I'm not sure what it is, but the stress of crazy days at work, managing a home that's not mine, saving money for a wedding, planning and doing for the wedding, planning and nightmare-ing about the parents and the wedding, and this nagging cold/bronchitis I've had for 2 weeks now (wah), I feel overwhelmed. Or I'm on the brink of overwhelmed. Sometimes I have a premonition of myself, balled up and crying, trying to escape and cleanse all the negativity, but it hasn't quite exploded yet. Is it about to? I'm not sure, but it sure feels looming.

As if a stereo was blasting white noise and I just couldn't find the "off" switch, feelings of nervousness and anxiety, worries that things won't get done, and fears that I won't be worthy or successful crowd out any joy left in me. Sleep no longer brings rest, and I feel like I'm waiting... waiting to let a breath out... waiting to open my eyes to some relief.

Everything inspires more anxiety. The absence of a smile. The addition of a project. The ringing of my cell phone. The notice of a new email. Why do I think it's all out to get me?

Happy Tuesday.

Strong, but Not Tough (Part 1)

Growing up, I was painfully shy. I remember grocery shopping with the Czar and Queen one day and asking where something was. When they told me I should ask a clerk, I immediately burst into tears. The thought of talking to a stranger filled me with an intense and inconsolable fear.

Whenever the Czar would discipline me with his time-tested method of endless hours of berating and yelling, I was never allowed to speak up. Of course, the occasional yes ("Do you agree with me?") and no ("Do you think what you did was right?") were in the script, but outside of that, I was to keep my mouth shut. I learned very early on that truth and justice had no place, but instead compliance and silent suffering were the easiest way to escape the verbal and sometimes physical lashings. I resolved that nothing was worth looking at that enraged, red-veined eyeball as he whipped me with a hanger, comb, shoehorn, whatever was nearby.

As I grew older, I got the bright idea that I should at least say something if the Czar misunderstood something. Any time I attempted at justifying or even proving my innocence, the result was merely more culpability. Whether it was for talking back or suggesting that they wrong (how dare I?), any words from me were met with more punishment and anger.

I learned that the most my "voice" would ever be was an internal wail of injustice, an all-night crying session, a cold ice-pack on the welts on my thighs. But even nurture can't quiet quell nature entirely. Outside the realm of home, I began to find my strength. Excelling in academics earned me a bit of authority, at least with classmates and teachers, and I began to find joy in others hearing me.

When I moved out for college, I decided to reinvent myself. I didn't want to be the girl that people knew was smart but never invited to parties. I didn't want to be the sucker who always took the blame because someone else told me to. I learned to be friendly. I learned to talk to strangers. I learned to talk to large groups of people. Recently, the boy asked me why I never considered business as a major. I explained that, as a shy person all my life, I never thought a career of working with other people and mingling suited me.

Anyone who met me after high school, knows me as a fairly outgoing, often funny and goofy person. I'm not a natural leader, but I'm not afraid to lead. I wouldn't say I'm combative, but I'm not afraid to call people out or make complaints when it's called for.

But at the root of my being, the insecurity and fear of returning to that once-lonely girl whose pillow was her only audience lead me on a spiral of anxiety. Like an offensive lineman, breaking through a row of bodies, I see everything as an obstacle. Everyone looks like the Czar to me. They're trying to shut me up. They don't believe me. They think I'm mindless. They'll never listen. They'll never care unless I force them. I bite, punch, kick, shove my way to the podium, when there may be no obstacles at all. The longer it takes to reach an assurance that I've been heard, understood, feels like precious seconds of holding my breath underwater. As another second ticks by, my heart quickens, my breath shallows, my mind races, and panic grows. I flail, I reach, but I can't seem to break the surface, find any relief.

While explaining this feeling to someone recently, I mentioned that I had felt weak for so long that I had to teach myself, make myself, be strong. They replied that, while I can be strong, and being strong is good, I didn't have to be so tough. That the forceful and abrasive nature with which I demand from people only recreates the loneliness. Navigating clumsily from one extreme to the other, I guess I haven't quite picked up the skill of asserting my strength with grace. I only know this because I see the one I love most has scratches and bruises from my pointless attempts to be heard.

A Baby's Desperation

Now that the Czar and Queen are out of state, I've been spending a lot more time with the Boy (yep, somehow there's more time to be spent together). During the first 2 years of our relationship, the Boy held on so stubbornly and anxiously to his time, his space, that we fought often about our individual readiness for a serious relationship. Was he ready to commit? Was I ready to let go of my imaginations of love?

There's always a part of me that remembers those times with a twinge of...regret fear unease. I wonder if maybe he'll get sick of me. I wonder if a few days in a row of seeing me will weary him. There are times when a small annoyance on my part will grow into worry that he's silently scheming on how to get more alone time (projecting, maybe?).

Last night, as we spent yet another hour chatting and watching Anthony Bourdain, he looked at me in a way that reassured me he's far from sick of me. Even as I try to keep my distance at times and leave him to his work, studies, or whatever it is he's doing, he'll approach me in a way that shows his longing for me. It surprised me that this morning that I was excited to see him again. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but as if we haven't seen each other in weeks, I can't wait to be near him again.

This past weekend, I babysat for friends, new parents of a 6-month old little girl. Normally, with her and other babies, I've got some magic touch (or extreme body heat, whatever). I'm a baby-monger, and this little one generally falls asleep or is exhausted with laughter when she sees me. No problem, right?

Wrong. She's experiencing some stranger anxiety, and I could not console her for the life of me. She was so genuinely distressed that I was not her mom. As I held her while she cried, slept, cried, slept, and cried some more for about 6 hours, it made me think of friends who are going through the adoption process... how they endure this for weeks at time as their children grieve the loss of their foster parents.

I thought about the weight of being a mother. Not that I have the slightest idea of what that really means yet, but I kept thinking of the deep and utter sadness this little girl felt that she could not see her mother. She looked everywhere for her, pushing my face away. I fed her, held her, sang to her, talked to her, but none of that mattered because I was not her mother.

And it hit me...as my arms burned and my lower back ached from carrying and bouncing little M...the weight of being a mother...the ability responsibility of having such an effect on another human being. This little baby was so desperate and lost without her mother, regardless of what I had to offer. Am I ready to be that mother?

I've always wanted to be a mother. I have dreams of pregnancy and motherhood. I imagined I would get married at 24 (I'm 29 now), and I would have children at 26. Obviously, I'm not pregnant or even married yet. But I'm more sure now that I'm not ready to give up this feeling of excitement for my evening, free to be with my soon-to-be husband, carefree and aimless. I still can't wait for motherhood, but being a wife is excitement enough for now.

I Do Solemnly Swear...

This weekend, I will

• not worry about the wedding.
• not worry about my parents' opinions/emotions.
• not worry about making everyone else happy.
• eat well, but not unhealthy.
• drink a lot of water.
• go to the gym and sweat hard.
• not call myself fat.
• compliment each girlfriend I talk to (honestly).
• hold on to a hug just a little bit longer.
• not feel bad about abilities.
• be thankful for my raise.
• be thankful for my job.
• read my bible.
• read my book.
• thank a friend for being my friend.
• love my fiance, without fear.
• let my fiance love me, without fear.

The Perpetual "Off Day"

When I was first learning how to drive, my legs and arms would be sore after just a few minutes of driving. I realized that I had been so nervous, all my leg and arm muscles were clenched the entire time. A very physical indicator of my emotional state.

Lately, I guess I just haven't been feeling like myself. I notice I feel like this the most at work and in social situations. When I'm alone or with the boy, I feel a little more relaxed, but should I run into a coworker or acquaintance, small talk is such a chore and I can't muster up the energy to com up with the typical response I would give. I can't make a joke. I can't think of a follow-up question. I feel like it takes years to finally answer them. What should I say?

Nothing. I having nothing I want to say. A friend says that it's because I'm overstimulated, overwhelmed. I'm not free. Maybe that's true. The feeling reminds me of that time in my life where I was learning to drive. I may not have been driving erratically, no accidents occurred, I never hit anything, and no one ever hit me. But sheer nervousness, a complete inability to relax, meant that my body was in a constant state of tenseness.

I keep thinking, I'll be better tomorrow. I'm having an off day. But everyday, I sit here wondering why I feel so "off" or "out of it." Whether it's from holding on so tightly to my sanity that I've exhausted myself, or from holding my breath until the wedding that I'm suffering from oxygen deprivation, I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm tired of being tired.

Yes, I Know

"Be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you.' So we can confidently say, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?'" (Hebrews 13:6)

This verse and the promises behind it have been repeated to me over the past several months. My mind glosses over the familiarity of it. Yes, I know. Hang in there. It'll be over soon enough. Yes, I know. You can handle this. Yes, I know.

But tell a victim of domestic abuse that, with God's help, they can make it through yet another abusive relationship. Yes, I know. I just don't want to.

I've been trying to tell myself that it will be ok, that I just need to hang in there a little bit longer. I have my bad days, and then once in a while I have a surge of hope, a glimmer of contentment. Whether it's something the boy says, a new voice to speak the same words I've heard over and over, a silent smile from a familiar face, someone who listens without trying to tell me it will be ok... some days, I feel enough glimpses of the truth that I actually do believe I can make it. Of course I can make it. I guess I mean that I feel I can make it... but make it whole.

This is my battle. Others may struggle with demons that take the very clear and discernible shape of circumstances (like barrenness), of people who have hurt them (like cheaters), and any number of other things. My demons look and sound very familiar... they sound like me, the look like me, they feel like truth. My demons are my own inability to believe, to trust, to feel safe, to feel whole, to feel loved, to be confident, to let go, to give back, to give in, to forgive, to love even though I've been hurt, to accept that I will be hurt again, to separate the lie of utter defeat from the truth of hope.

Waving the White (Red?) Flag

I had never been in a serious or long-term relationship before the boy came along. I think it's for that reason that I never knew the full extent of my own insecurities and anxiety. Whether the Czar and Queen are the root or foundation or just inspirations for of all of that, I can't say for sure. But up until I started dating the boy seriously, most of those feelings of fear, anxiety, depression, etc. were all connected to the Czar and Queen. So when it comes out now in my relationship, I don't always recognize it.

It's true that I've had falling outs with girlfriends and "kind of" boyfriends in the past, but this is the first time I've hinged my life on someone. Obviously, no other person can make or break you, but when you make that scary commitment to marry, you've set yourself up to some major vulnerability... vulnerability to being hurt the way no one in your life has ever been able to hurt you before.

Recently, in a fit of insecurity or PMS or something, I let my anxiety get the best of me, and the boy started to wave his red flag. Hey there. You're being insecure. I'm not going anywhere. Just relax. But I didn't get it. Time and time again, I've asked him to not get upset that I'm upset and to just reassure me that I'm just being insecure. And he did. And I still thought he was attacking me.

At some point in our conversation, it clicked that he had been trying to do exactly what I had asked for and wanted him to do, and I was utterly shocked. Will it ever end? Will the torture never end? What if this stupid insecurity never goes away? In a moment of insecurity, the anxiety inflates any negative thoughts, and I go into a bit of a frenzy. It feels unstoppable, and even when someone is trying to help me, it all feels like an attack. I started to wonder if I would ever overcome this insecurity. I was angry with myself for not seeing how the boy had genuinely tried to do what I asked. (Granted, he hadn't done it all that well, but he tried. He later apologized for "chucking" the red flags at me instead of just waving them in the air.)

With the wedding drawing ever so near, I can't help but notice all the different ways insecurity affects my feelings and, therefore, my decisions. I've been avoiding the gym, because I think none of it will make a difference. I will never be happy with my appearance anyway. I've been avoiding my parents, because no matter how nice they're being, they'll come back to hurt me anyways. But what has curling up into a ball to protect myself done for me? Has it kept me from getting hurt? No. Because I cannot live this life alone. And if I can't live it alone, I can't live without getting hurt. Slice it any way you want, but insecurity is not to be solved by disguising it with self-sufficiency or abrasiveness. Maybe the only way to overcome feeling vulnerable is to be ok with being vulnerable in the first place.

Student by Day, Streetwalker by Night

I'm well into my 20s, actually closer to my 30s, but I have what you might consider a "curfew on steroids." Even in high school, I didn't have the traditional curfew my friends had. It wasn't ok to go see a movie as long as I was home by 10. It wasn't ok to go to a dance as long as I was home by midnight. I never went out. This might account for why I had but 2 friends in high school, really. We would hang out at someone's house until about 4, when I rushed home to get there before the Czar or Queen were home from work. This worked for the most part. My social life was ablaze from 3 to 4pm. Hoppin.

When I came home during breaks in college, I made sure to find a seasonal job and pick up as many hours as I could. Take your shift? Sure! Take an extra shift? Sure! Someone called in sick? I'll stay late, sure! I schemed to make sure I was closing so that I could wake up late, enjoy a silent house, and then leave before they came home. There were a few times where I would say I was working and instead hang out with friends, and those were glorious days of freedom.

After college, I moved back home and a dilemma presented itself. I had lived by my own schedule, coming and going as I please, for 4 years. What now? It became very clear that my non-curfew from high school was still in place after I babysat for my pastor. Yep. Pastor.

At the time, my pastor was probably in late 30s or early 40s, and a friend of his was finally getting married. He was to be a groomsman, so he and his wife were looking for a babysitter for their 3 children while they celebrated this very special occasion. I was a graduate student at the time, so I gladly offered my help. Besides, they lived just 7 or so minutes away from my house.

That night, I played some Scrabble with the eldest, shared some girl talk with the middle, and put the stubborn youngest to sleep successfully. I was enjoying the silence of the house when my pastor called to say he'd be a little late. Maybe 30 minutes. This would put me home past midnight, so I called the Czar. The response I got beyond baffled me.

What kind of church is this? What kind of pastor stays out and leaves his kids at home past midnight? You... are a street walker. What are you doing!? You're so stupid. This is ridiculous!

Yep. He called me a prostitute. Babysitting for my pastor who lives 7 minutes away until 12:30 on a Saturday night as a 23-year-old clearly means I'm selling my body for money. Is it any wonder that I've learned to lie so easily to them? It's very sad, but it's the only way I can get any sense of freedom. So if anyone asks, I'm working late tonight...

Moving?

I've always thought (sometimes quite dramatically) that something hugely tragic would need to happen in order for the Czar to see that he's not every in control of anything outside of himself. Whether that meant I fell ill or he fell ill, I was open to anything. The boy says I should wait before I "wish harm upon them," but the logic behind it stands, I think. When do drug addicts finally admit when they have a problem? When they've hit "rock bottom." The Czar is addicted to control. He must hit rock bottom.

I recently learned that the Czar's work may be changing. Circumstances have left him to seek out other employment, including options that may require a move. Is it utterly evil of me to hope for that? I honestly believe that, in this case, the sayings "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and "what you don't know can't hurt you" will go neatly hand in hand and ride off into the sunset. Bemoan my cliches all you want, but here's to good interviews and a little bit of luck.

Who Need Drugs When I Have Denial?

I wonder every once in a while why I never dabbled in drugs, excessive drinking, or promiscuity. It would seem logical that someone who had been kept in a cage all her life would find herself imbalanced in a way that I often see exhibited in drug and alcohol abuse. I have a good friend who grew up very broken, even suffering near strangulation at her own father's hands. To me, she's a beautiful and wonderfully successful woman and someone who will always go to bat for me when she can. But I often see through the facade of the orderly appearance and see the shattered life inside. She grew up experimenting with more drugs than I can name, men often walk in and out of her life leaving behind scars of their own brokenness on her, and she currently takes antidepressants to help manage through the emotional struggles.

So why not me? Where's my drug of choice, alcohol-induced black outs, or one-night escapades? For some reason, I never found it appealing to try any drug or overdo the alcohol, which both probably have something to do with the lack of the third, but I'm starting to realize I didn't get out unscathed...I'm weak. I'm really fragile and easily broken.

All my life, I dreamed of the day when my prince would come and rescue me. He'd swoop in, shield me from the attacks, and whisk me away to the "happily ever after." But it turns out he's human. Just like me, he bleeds, bruises, and withers. This week, I think I caught my first glance of his battle wounds. I saw the blood dripping, and my initial reaction was anger. What the hell is this?... And yet a thought dawned on me. Doesn't love want to protect? Love is not selfish, and all this time I had been wanting to throw him between me and the barrel of the gun...

Romantic ideals and logic aside... at the end of the day, it's me and the boy against the Czar and the world. I don't want to fight with him about the tactics of how to fight this battle. However everyone else thinks the battle should be fought or how it can be won, no one can step into my shoes and fight it for me. So I choose to stand behind him and trust in his choices. This is NOT to say that I believe in the rightness or justifications of those choices. I am choosing him over those things. I believe that in the end, even if not now, he will arrive at the choices that are best for both of us. So if that means he must leave his post to forge new weapons or learn a new tool to win us the battle, then I must stand bravely and bleed myself.