Tag: mental health

Gumption

MissMLeave a comment

Today would be my second wedding anniversary if I’d stayed. 2 years since I said “I do,” but actually didn’t.

My mind can’t help but wonder from time to time what my life would look like now if I hadn’t ran away. Would I still wake up a little early every morning to carve out some peace for myself, emptying the dishwasher ever so quietly and making coffee for two? Would I still restlessly pace the house back-and-forth in the evenings, praying for the sun to set so I could pharmaceutically induce sleep and get another day under my belt? Would I still cook dinner once a week and end up eating alone because I didn’t want to be a disruption?

I was unwanted. Unliked. Undesired. I shrunk and shrunk and shrunk, and somehow would never be small enough. He needed more space from me than our modest house allowed, so I’d go for drives. Wander around a town that I could never call home and have a cryptic phone call with my mom, trying to force a smile through the phone while I told her that I’m doing fine.

There was no intimacy – physically, emotionally, or otherwise. Our king bed felt like a continent with nothing but an impassable ravine between us. The first time I expressed my despondence with our situation resulted in a tornado of harsh words, threats to leave each other, and me collapsed on the kitchen floor, choking on my own tears. I waited another year to bring it up again.

We were incompatible in most respects, but especially in the conflict resolution department. The cold shoulder was a frequently-deployed weapon in our home, injecting a heavy, hot stream of tension into the air for hours, sometimes days. I’d scream and yell and he’d throw things and fantasize about bashing my head against the wall. More than once, our fights took place over email – both of us typing furiously behind our keyboards, not even 20 feet away.

My first ever suicidal thought occurred on the 1.5-hour drive home from our quarterly Costco excursion. We’d been arguing in circles and the noise of it all had me in dire need of an escape. From the passenger seat, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the door handle, I thought to myself, “tuck and roll, you coward.”

He overnighted me a handwritten letter a few days after I’d left him and stopped returning his messages or phone calls. He was ready to hear my needs and do something about them. We can move back home, or go where ever I need to be. “Please don’t give up on me yet”, he implored, with all the love in his heart.

I may never understand why he wanted me back. I can’t speak to whether he ever loved me, but I know that he certainly didn’t like me for an overwhelming majority of our 14 months spent in holy matrimony. As for me, I loved him deeply until I simply couldn’t. I spent 2 precious years of my twenties in a town that I didn’t understand with a husband that didn’t understand me. I was starved for familiarity, intimacy, and companionship. There was no space or consideration for these needs, and I’m not convinced that there ever would have been.

I hold no resentment in my heart, nor doubt about my decision to sever this relationship for my own sake. I don’t even think I regret it. I grew in ways that would be hard to attain otherwise, and know for certain that I’m too resilient to be broken down entirely or permanently. What an empowering truth.

-M

Connive

MissMLeave a comment

Today I present to you: three stories that illustrate why I do not and will not ever trust a middle-aged white man ever again (not that I need any anecdotal reason. Just open a history book and read like, a header.).

    1. The Dance Teacher

    I’m a freshman in college, and objectively the best ballroom dancer on my team. The Dance Teacher is highly esteemed as both a coach and a dancer himself, even at his advanced age. I couldn’t be more honored that he’s selected me as his prodige. He is going to give me the competitive edge I need to bring home a trophy at the upcoming competition in Vegas.

    He offers me free 2- hour private lessons on Saturdays. We meet at an LDS church building to use their gym as our dance floor. Our first session is a smashing success, and I can tell that he’s impressed with my skill and technique. I am proud and I am driven.

    I am stretching on the floor in preparation for our second private session, and he tells me my legs are tight. He’s right – I’ve been getting cramps in my calves and feet lately due to my rigorous practice schedule. He takes my dance shoes off of me and massages my feet. My calves. My thighs. My cheeks flood with blood and heat. I say nothing and we start dancing. He holds me close and firm and doesn’t let go.

    But he knows what it takes to win, and I know I can be a winner too, so I attend a third lesson.

    His phone rings just as we’re about to begin. “I have to take this,” he says and he walks into the hallway and speaks into the phone. I wait patiently, but can clearly hear his side of the conversation.

    “Hi, honey. I told you I’m picking up some mulch and bringing it to Dave’s to help him finish up his yard. I’ll be home in a few hours. Okay, love you. Talk soon.”

    That was our last private lesson.

    2. The Professor

    The Professor and I have great rapport. Healthy banter. I’ve been in several of his classes before and genuinely enjoy his lectures and teaching style.

    We are nearing the end of the semester, and I am extremely stressed about my capstone group project. Let’s just say that not everyone in the group has my vigor and drive for perfection. I’m visibly distressed in class today – my chest is red and my breathing is shallow.

    The Professor dismisses class and looks at me with concern. “M – swing by my office in a few minutes if your schedule allows.” I’m perspiring through my dress. Was my group project that inadequate? Will this tank my GPA? I’m on track for Cum Laude and can’t bear falling short.

    His office is down a long corridor, and the surrounding rooms are unoccupied. “Thanks for swinging by,” he says genuinely as I enter his office and take a seat on his couch.

    “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked a bit distressed during my lecture today. I want to assure you that you’re getting an A on your group project, but I unfortunately can’t say the same for the rest of your peers.” I take the first real breath I’ve taken all day and feel all of my muscles release, the heat from my cheeks dissipating.

    “Can I show you something?” He asks. I nod and he stands up and motions for me to do the same. “You need some breathing exercises to manage your anxiety. I can’t have you panicking in my classroom.” I give a half-hearted giggle. He walks behind me and says, “May I?” as he puts both hands on my diaphragm, not bothering to wait for a response.

    “Now, breathe deeply. Deeper than you even think you can.” I obey, watching his hands expand with my abdomen. “Good, good. Another one.” I breathe again. On the third breath, his hands ascend to my breasts. I can feel his hot breath on my neck and we both realize that it’s time for me to leave.

    3. The Mediator

    We’re conducting our 1:1 mediation evaluation via Zoom. I join the call and see that The Mediator is sitting in his car, spooning a milkshake into his mouth. Am I in the wrong place?

    “Sorry for eating in front of you, but the lower my blood sugar is, the grumpier I get.” I give a confused chuckle.

    He begins asking for reasons that I am seeking a divorce. I’m unsure as to why this is relevant to his role in mediating my case, but I answer his questions as vaguely and matter-of-factly as I can. I have no idea how any of this works. He asks if I’m dating anyone and says “If you’re f*cking 10 black guys, I need to know about it. I want to be prepared for whatever I’m walking into for your mediation session.”

    The conversation continues, and he mentions that he would totally hook me up with his son if his son weren’t already married. He offers his nephew as an alternative.

    “Let’s get me back on the market first,” I say, as light-heartedly as I can muster. He is finished with the evaluation now, and the call ends.

    A few days later, on a Saturday, I receive a text from him. “Hey M, this is The Mediator. Can you send me four or five of your favorite pictures of yourself?”

    “Hi Mediator,” I respond, “What will they be used for?”

    “Remember that nephew I was telling you about? And I was only kind of kidding with you.”

    I fired him and got my deposit back, but not without being threatened with legal action.

    All 3 men were of a very similar demographic – white, much older than me, and in positions of authority. I was perhaps a bit naive in my earlier years, but my distrust, defiance, and confidence grows each time I land in a situation such as the ones I’ve illustrated here. I pity the next one, as I know that there will be more.

    -M.

    Auspices

    MissMLeave a comment

    Being the eldest daughter comes with a lot of unique challenges. They even have a name for it: “Oldest Daughter Syndrome.” This widespread phenomenon is a hot topic on the TikTok nowadays, and there seems to be a decent amount of data to support its existence. According to Charlie Health, common symptoms of this condition include:

    • Having a strong sense of responsibility – Check
    • Feeling a need for control – Check
    • Carrying the heavy weight of parents’ expectations – Check
    • Perfectionism – Undeniable
    • Struggling with same-age relationships – Absolutely
    • Feeling resentment towards family (parents or siblings) – We can get into this later
    • Always putting others before themselves – Affirmative
    • People pleasing behaviors – Obviously
    • Anxiety – Triple-medicated, baby

    I think that the eldest child is the most likely to take the brunt of generational trauma. Think about it – your parents were brand new at being parents, and often had no business being parents at all yet. They were carrying all sorts of unresolved trauma of their own and were never equipped with the tools to heal. Even worse, they likely weren’t even aware that they had trauma that needed healing. So here these young parents are, doing their damn best to morph you into a respectable member of society with their own parents’ methods as their guiding light.

    If you haven’t gathered already, I’m an Eldest Daughter. And yes, parts of that experience super sucked. My parents’ expectations evolved drastically with each daughter they had, and I felt slighted when my sisters were allowed to stay out as late as they wanted on weekends and didn’t have to go to church. I didn’t realize at the time that my parents were evolving as whole people, so of course their parenting approach changed.

    I’ve grown up a lot, and time and distance have changed my perspective on how my parents raised me for the better. We have a special bond – there was a time when it was just the 3 of us. My parents didn’t even know each other very well when they had me, and they somehow formed a partnership strong enough to guide their little girl all the way to adulthood. And honestly, they did alright.

    My dad said a few words at my wedding that I’ll never forget: “Thank you for your patience with us.”

    He meant thank you for understanding that though we don’t always get it right, we’re doing the best that we can. Thank you for realizing that we’re learning right alongside you, and we carry all of those lessons into parenting your siblings. Thank you for being strong-headed, yet always doing your best to meet our expectations. You’re not just a guinea pig, and your childhood wasn’t simply a “practice run” for your sisters.

    Mom, Dad, I love you so much. I’m honored and grateful to be your first daughter, even with the syndromic outcomes that accompany this dutiful role. Thank you for molding me into the beautiful, flawed, complicated woman I am today. And thank YOU for your patience with me every time I defied, disrespected, and disregarded you. I know better now.

    -M.

    Solus

    MissMLeave a comment

    Disclaimer: I’m 1/3rd of a bottle of wine deep, so the words are flowing in an exceptionally unrestricted manner.

    Alone. I used to feel that metaphorically, as in “nobody gets me and I don’t have any friends.” But right now, I’m literally alone, and it’s an entirely different mind-fuck.

    Matthew went back to Salt Lake City to uHaul our belongings to our new home – Asheville, North Carolina. He’s been gone for 6 days so far, and has 3 more to go. It’s really hard to not fixate on the fact that everyone and everything I know is thousands of miles away from me.

    The trailer remains our only dwelling (we close on our house in less than a month!), but I’ll be damned if I live in that thing alone. I tried for a couple of days in the interest of saving money, but landed abruptly in a hotel room near downtown Asheville after one of the gnarliest panic attacks I’ve had since being medicated.

    It all started when I slammed my thumb into the trailer door. It took seconds for me to wiggle it free, and the pain induced a mountain of hyperventilated sobs. To be honest, it didn’t even hurt that bad, but tears don’t all have to fall for the same reason.

    Before I knew it, I was doubled over in a panicked hunch, desperately gasping for relief. I hadn’t slept in days, and my mind wasn’t safe there. Provincial gentlemen in souped-up (yes, that’s how you spell it, I checked) trucks intermittently sped past my trailer with music blasting so loud that it left me with tinnitus. It was cold and loud and shaky, and I needed my mama.

    It took her little convincing to get me to book a hotel room downtown, so here I am. It’s still hard, being so far away from home that I can’t hug my mom and cry into her shoulders, but I like this place, and I’ll like it even more upon reunion with my dogs and my person. I’m still peeing even more than usual, and find myself walking on treadmills for hours just to keep myself occupied. I’ve even considered watching reality TV. However, I’ve also discovered some of the best wine I’ve ever had, made friends with some middle-aged southern ladies (my favorite!), and have a list of restaurants to show Matthew upon his return.

    A lot of people would enjoy being in my situation, I think. A whole week to yourself in a hotel with the means to do whatever you want? That sounds nice if your thoughts are manageable. Mine are always on turbo-speed, and I spend all of my alone time trying to get my body to keep up. I would love to sleep, but because I won’t, I already have a sunrise hike planned for tomorrow.

    Anyway, there’s no takeaway here, but I feel a little bit better.

    -M.

    Salubrious

    MissMLeave a comment

    I haven’t been to therapy in a long while (in THIS economy?!), so I’ve been trying to freestyle my mental health maintenance by reading books, listening to podcasts, and owning up to when my partner tells me that I’m projecting again. Still working on that one-I’ve been described as “prideful” a time or two.

    Old habits die hard, as they say.

    I am currently reading Clarity & Connection by Yung Pueblo. If you haven’t heard of him, I strongly recommend checking out his Instagram account, and picking up his book from someplace other than Amazon. He kicks off the book by describing how awareness is the first step to healing one’s traumas and finding deeper connection in relationships. If you’ve been following me at all, you can deduce that I have a decent amount of baggage (no shame). I’m clearly aware of this, as I can write a solid blog post about pretty much any emotion I have ever felt.

    Sure, I’m exponentially healthier and happier than the gal who kicked off this blog several years ago. Reading back at previous posts has been an overwhelmingly cringy experience, but I said what I said. Trauma is a bitch in that it can lay latent for YEARS until something triggers it back into full force. I’ve been dealing with this as of late, which has been making me pretty hard to get along with. I’ve got a hyperactive nervous system, and am regularly either fighting, flighting, or dissociating.

    All of this is evidence of a lack of mindfulness, I think. I’d consider myself pretty hippie-like (I practically live in a van by the river), but meditation and yoga and the like have never been my cup of tea. It’s all so very noisy between my ears, which reduces my bandwidth for mindfulness significantly. However, a pretty cool dude named Ram Dass has taught a mantra “Ah, so.” for when things get too noisy in the noggin. “Ah, so.” What a way to become a passive witness of your emotions, reactions, and interpretations of the world around you.

    “Ah, so. I’m spiraling again.” Let’s sit with it. Let’s feel it through and watch it pass by. Reaction can wait. I may not be at the point where I can intercept these toxic thought patterns yet, but maybe with a little practice, I can at least watch them flow through me until I’m removed enough from that emotional state to act in a logical manner.

    The best part is: I’m not alone. I’ve built a beautiful network of insightful individuals over the past few years that continually inspire me to get my act together, and I am beyond grateful for every one of them!

    I’ve got a LONG way to go, and I can’t imagine that I’m the only one experiencing the woes of anxiety and trauma, so let’s get a bit interactive! How do you mediate mean thoughts? Drop a comment, shoot me an email, or send me a letter via pigeon. More musings coming your way soon!

    -M.

    Treatment

    MissMLeave a comment

    “It’s in your head” they said, and I nodded

    rattling the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

    “Take this” they said, and I open orange bottle after orange bottle

    Three times daily, once with food, once before bed

    And then everything is slower and I am listless

    Anesthetized thoughts rattling the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

    Hazily moping through days that are saturated in slumber

    Relentlessly begging the clock to wind the sun down

    “Do more” they demand; the persistent, untreatable thoughts

    The ones that nobody has made a poison to kill yet

    And I weave my way through the clouded trance

    within the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

    To do more and be more

    With shallow breathing and trembling hands and racing thoughts of sheer panic

    Until a quick glance at the clock grants me another dose

    And I lean back slow into the tranquility

    And then everything is slow and I am listless

     

    M.

     

     

     

     

     

    Pusillanimity

    MissM1 Comment

    This is an open letter to anybody I’ve ever bailed on. And trust me, that’s quite a broad audience.

    To the perfectly nice boy who’s been asking me to coffee for MONTHS, but I always seem to have other plans. To the girl from high school who wants to catch up over dinner, but my car keeps breaking down, or I have to go see my aunt who’s last night in town happens to be this one, and can’t we try again next week?

    To my old coworker who cheerily invited me to go jogging with her week after week when I started complaining out loud about my general lack of fitness, but I was always “too tired.”

    To the genuinely good and nice and warm people who did nothing but request my company, but I wouldn’t or couldn’t show. To the ones I ghosted; too much of a coward to even offer a fabricated explanation.

    I want to start off by apologizing. My tendency to inconsiderately back out on plans that we’ve made together at the last minute has absolutely NOTHING to do with you. In fact, I want nothing more than to have followed through on those aforementioned plans, and gotten to know you and perhaps even have had a little bit of fun.

    If I may, i’d like to offer a bit of an explanation of what is going on in this anxiety-ridden noggin that the good Lord gave me. *If there is one*

    I never make plans with someone that I don’t 100% intend on following through on. My intentions are pure, I assure you. I’m always eager to meet people and create new experiences with them and so forth.

    But then, as we near our time to meet up, my anxiety elevates. Gradually, at first, and I start to have doubts about following through on the plans I’d made. “What if he/she doesn’t like me?” “What if they hurt me?” “What I’m uglier/dumber/less funny than they expected me to be?”

    I start to feel unsafe. Not because of the person I have tentative plans to see. Not that, at all. It’s like a reflex, a constant need to protect myself from an unidentified threat. A lump in my throat and a sinking stomach. Thoughts that move at the speed of sound.

    I slowly stop responding to your text messages. I pop a Buspar (a fast-acting anti-anxiety drug intended to prevent panic attacks). I convince myself that I’m much too tired to engage with others now.

    You send me a “We’re still on, right?” text.

    I don’t even open it. I turn your notifications on “mute.”

    “M? You okay?” you inquire.

    Ignored.

    I probably end up passing out at 8 PM, and waking up to one or two more messages from you, with an air of either completely justified disappointment or frustration. And I ignore it. And then we likely don’t talk again.

    And I feel alone.

    The worst part of it is that it’s entirely self-inflicted.

    I hunger for human connection constantly. Watching other people grow and develop amongst each other is devastatingly painful, because I can”t seem to allow myself to do the same. And I end up frustrating people I care about and want to be around, but I keep standing right in my own way.

    In summary, I really appreciate everyone who’s ever reached out and tried to make me feel included and wanted. Even if you’ve ever just asked me to go on a walk in the park or get an ice cream cone. And I’m truly, genuinely sorry that I was unable to follow through. I’m sorry if I made you feel sad or mad or frustrated because I flaked on you. It’s not you, it’s me.

    I’ve found myself struggling with this especially lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to return to therapy, and stay compliant on my medications, so that’s my fix-it plan. If you haven’t entirely given up on me, I’d still like to get that cup of coffee or see that movie with you.

    Wish me luck, friends.

    M.

    Calloused

    MissM1 Comment

    I’m back writing again, and you all know what that means.

    I’m in emotional turmoil 🙂

    Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than succumbing  to my own humanity. Y’know, feelings and whatnot. Particularly the ones that make you appear vulnerable and weak.

    I’ve developed into the classic “funny girl.” Ask anyone that’s had a 30-minute conversation with me, I guarantee I’ve made them laugh. Humor is arguably the most effective tool of deflection.

    I guess this is my self-protective mechanism; my adaptation to the realization that i’m not safe out in the world. And it’s served me well, for the most part.

    I want to be perceived as the comedic, confrontational, independent gal who couldn’t give two bothers as to what anybody thinks of her. And to my core, I am that person. And I love that person. But even she isn’t immune to the pain of rejection, betrayal, misplaced trust, and heartbreak.

    And i’ll be honest, initially, things don’t really get to me. I can shrug off most anything, and I’ll probably even crack a joke about it just to assure you that I’m okay. But after a random duration of time, it all gets to me at once. Pain always catches up, no matter how far of a head start you have.

    Today was one of those days where I felt the pain of the last decade all come crashing down on me at the same time. I happened to be at the gym, actually, when the lump in my throat began to build. Leg day was cut short so I could make it to my car in time for the water works.

    I’ve been through a lot in the past 10 years. Puberty, anorexia, braces, high school, rape, the loss of friends and significant others, death, rejection, and the constant frustration that I’m the one behind the wheel, but my GPS keeps rerouting, turning me in unproductive circles.

    And I really haven’t done a whole lot of feeling.

    You can only suppress emotion for so long before you break, I guess. Being alive hurts.

    A healthy, well-adjusted individual would probably just allow themselves to feel the pain in real time, give themselves time to work through it, and then move on. I’d really, REALLY like to be a healthy, well-adjusted individual.

    Recently, I’d misplaced my trust in someone completely, allowing them to tug me around. They gained my trust and vulnerability far too quickly, and left me the fool. My initial reaction was complete denial that it even affected me at all, and then it turned to frustration. Granted, this person wasn’t in my life long enough to put me in the emotional state that I am now.

    But there’s always a catalyst for this sort of thing.

    And that lead me down the rabbit hole to every other instance in which I was forced into a vulnerable position, which turned into me driving home from the gym with tears dripping down my face and some Kanye song blasting in the background.

    I would beg whatever supernatural forces that exist to take the pain away, but I think the point is for me to let myself feel it.

    So i’m laying here, in a cuddle puddle with my two felines, doing just that.

    Growth; it isn’t always pretty.

     

    M.

    Itinerant

    MissMLeave a comment

    You thought I was done with this writing thing, did you?

    Not a chance.

    I’ve been spending a lot of time between now and January 23rd, my most recent check-in with you guys, making more mistakes, meeting different people, gaining new perspectives, and also attempting to learn a thing or two from all of that.

    I’ve been graduated from college for a little over a year now, and I’ve been walking around like a deer in headlights ever since. It’s honestly adorable how unprepared I felt when I graduated high school. That was NOTHING in comparison to how I feel right now. Does one ever learn what the hell is going on in this whirlwind of experiences that we compile together and call “life”?

    I turned 23 on Memorial Day this year, and shortly thereafter, experienced what I surely hope I can call a “midlife crisis.” You see, I woke up one morning and dyed my hair pink, and later pierced my nose. Two days later, I got the stud taken out of my nostril and began the process of vigorously washing out the color from my yellow locks. It could have been worse though, I could have gotten BANGS.

    I’ve continued to draw further into myself while a part of me desperately tries to reach out. I’m a prisoner to my mind, a captive audience to a voice that chants, You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong. You are not wanted.”

    Sometimes, though, I do get over myself and defy my mean brain. I hide behind my sense of humor and cool demeanor as I interact with others, peeking from behind the sky-scraping walls at others whose intentions I may never know, may never trust.

    Humans love an origin story. We want to know where we came from, what existed first. Chronology. But I can’t seem to put a start date on when I started feeling this way, which leads me to believe that perhaps I always have.

    This isn’t a call for attention, or even sympathy. I don’t even feel pity for myself. Perhaps it’s an integral part of who I am. I’m comfortable in my solitude, acclimated to my loneliness. I am capable of making myself happy, and I do so often. It’s only on days that I fail that I wish I were different.

    I guess the most I could hope for for myself is to eventually allow myself to be encompassed by those who help set me free from my malicious mind. I’m not there yet, though. So I sit in my quaint apartment behind a keyboard, attempting to assign words to feelings, transforming the internal to the external, so that I can get some peace and quiet.

    M.

    Remedial

    MissM1 Comment

    I recently became a volunteer advocate at the Rape Recovery Center, a local nonprofit that provides counseling services, a crisis hotline, and hospital teams for survivors of sexual violence. In order to become an advocate, one must complete a 40-hour intensive training program. I’m at the midpoint of my training now, and while my experience so far has been one of empowerment, solidarity, and fulfillment, it’s also forced me to re-examine and really process (for the first time) my own rape.

    I’ve come to realize that due to many contributing factors, I have yet to take the time to really process what happened to me, and how it’s impacted me physically, cognitively, and spiritually even now, a few years after the fact.

    My initial response was one of damage control. Immediately after regaining control of my body, I sped to a pharmacy to pick up a plan-B pill, inquired a private feminist Facebook group that I was a member of about STI testing, and took the proper steps to ensure that my perpetrator would not be able to contact me again.

    A member of the aforementioned Facebook group took it upon his (or her)self to notify my father of what happened to me. This member screen-shotted my original post about inquiring about STI testing, and emailed it to my father, which gave me more damage to control.

    I’ve been floating around from day to day, somewhat numb, ever since. I’ve always been kind of a distant person, but since this occurred, I’ve been even more withdrawn, even less in-touch with my emotions and my ability to connect with people, especially men.

    A guy that I’m not personally friends with DM’d me on Facebook the other day, and asked me if I was a rape victim.  I responded in the affirmative, and he proceeded to tell me that I’m so much stronger, and my spirit is more alive since I was raped.

    I found this response both appalling and offensive, for a handful of reasons. First of all, this man does not know me. He didn’t know me before the rape, and he doesn’t know me now. How, then, can he feel confident in making such a statement? Furthermore, I was strong before this happened to me. Nobody needs to experience sexual violence in order to become strong. I had the strength to cope with this trauma before it even occurred, and I refuse to credit this incidence for giving me any such thing.

    As for my “spirit being more alive,” I have felt quite the opposite. This incidence swiftly changed me into the cynical, numb person you all know and love today. I struggle with my emotionality every day of my life. I don’t know how to connect with people. I don’t even know how to process my own emotions without enduring a full-fledged panic attack. My sense of security has been breached, and I’ve realized that there are infinitely many things that are completely out of my control.

    The man who made these comments did so with good intent. However, he does not know my experience, and therefore should refrain from telling me what it did to me. Perhaps I’m over-reacting, but I don’t feel like anyone is qualified to make such bold statements about an incident that had such a severe impact on my life except for myself.

    Anyway, I am sincerely honored and excited to become an advocate in my community, and hopefully be the support that I so desperately needed when this happened to me. It’s going to be triggering, difficult, exhausting work, but I feel like taking it on will be a healing experience for me, overall. It will, however, force me to rely on others for support when the burnout inevitably hits, and discouragement sets in.

    So I’d like to thank my amazing support system in advance, for helping me through this.

    M.