Tag Archives: Psychology

Expectations

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During the holidays, I’m reminded of how far the space is between the life I live in DC and the one where I was raised. It is not always easy to be the one who left. To create a path for yourself that deviates from your family of origin. It can make you feel as though you live two different lives, that there are two different versions of you. On the plane ride over I transform into my childhood self.

There is so much beauty in how I was raised, and I have so much for love for my family. On a weekly basis, I was surrounded by family. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and, of course, the grandparents at the center. We were our own village. We celebrated everything and mourned tragedies together. With a large family, we had our fair share of tragedies. I am grateful for this built-in support network, for the togetherness, for this deeply ingrained sense of protection.

But there are costs to a strong, family-centric childhood, especially one with its fair share of groupthink. And togetherness does not necessarily mean connection.

In my family, and I imagine in many others, there was right and there was wrong, and we were expected to conform. The expectations were heavy. Sometimes they were spoken and sometimes they were not. But they were known whether or not there were words attached to them.

Going against the grain, deviating from the norm, was not celebrated. It was met with disdain. I could feel the disappointment. The tension was suffocating. What is wrong with this person? This person must think they are better.

For much of my life, I did whatever I could to meet expectations. I did what I was told to do. I called and checked in on who I was supposed to. I went where I was supposed to go. I did not push back even when I wanted to. I went with the program. I was the giver and the high achiever. Do you need something? I’ll get it. Do you have something to say? I’ll hold it.

I craved acceptance and this was what I believed I had to do to get it. Who am I if I’m not doing something for others? I craved the attention I received when I did things for other people. I needed to feel like I was enough.

I feel I should clarify that I do not think meeting expectations and doing things for others is inherently a problem. However, in my case, it did not always feel I had a choice, not if I wanted to be loved by others. My family valued harmony over individuality. I learned to value harmony and avoided conflict at all costs. Over time, it became difficult to know why I was making the choices I was. Was it for me? Was it because I wanted to do x, y or z? Or was it because of someone else? Because it is what they expected of me?

Expectations are a problem if they leave you with zero space to make your own choices. They are a problem if you wear them as an identity. My self-worth was tied to what I was giving to others and how I was performing according to other people’s expectations. THIS was the problem.

Tying your self-worth to others, even your family, is a trap. Always. Creating a role for yourself where only perfection is acceptable is destructive. Always. And I’ve had to work for years into adulthood to rewire my brain to see it this way.

I am the person who left the family unit to pursue a life different than theirs. For 12 years, I’ve had to convince myself that it is okay to have made that choice. It is not selfish. It does not mean I think I am better than anyone else. It does not make me a bad person. I am loveable even when I do not conform. Even when I do not meet expectations.

Whenever I am home, I am even more aware of the choice I made and of the space between who I was and who I am trying to be. I am told what I will be doing instead of asked what I want to do. I am reminded that I am different. That I’ve gone down a path less traveled. For my family, they think that is DC, but I know the more important path has been the one inward. That is what has changed me.

This last trip home for Thanksgiving was difficult. I did not feel accepted. I did not feel seen for the person I am today. I spent most of the time doing things for others, but not feeling any appreciation for it. I am realizing that the appreciation I want is not a thank you, it is space in these relationships to be myself.

I may never get this from some of the people I want it from. Is it frustrating as hell? YES. But that’s okay. I’m learning to detach, that there is value in just owning what you can control. Your needs, wants, and desires.

I want to take up space with all versions of me. And guess what? All those versions are enough. 😊

Cue ‘Closer to Free’ by Bodeans

Casually Cruel

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Do you ever wonder why certain people come into your life? Is it for a reason? Is there a lesson to be learned? Or is it just coincidence? Is there no deeper meaning at all?

I want there to be a reason. I want to believe in fate. I want my life to have meaning. Why? I suppose because the alternative is scary. To accept that things just happen at random means facing the powerlessness I have over my life. It means accepting that, despite all my best intentions, things may not go the way I want them to. Bad things will happen. Good things will too. Against my will. In spite of my efforts.

I’m not sure what the right answer is to these questions. I imagine, like so much of life, it is somewhere in the middle, in that gray space. Life is unpredictable in a predictable way. We may not be able to control everything that happens, but we do control our reactions to the things that happen. What causes what is complicated. It is nuanced. Every day I am learning to sit with that.

I recently started talking again to someone from my past. He is someone that I used to feel very attached to. Perhaps dependent on is a better way of framing it. His mom had passed away within the last couple of years when we met. When I first met him, though, he was goofy and always joking around. I actually questioned whether he was capable of being serious. He reacted to that assumption I made and called me out on judging him too quickly. I remember feeling bad. I’m not sure if I felt bad for what I did to him or felt bad for being criticized – probably both. I felt I needed to keep talking to him, to figure out who he really was.

So we did. This was 2018. To say this relationship has been tumultuous would be an understatement.

It became an unhealthy dynamic for me very quickly. It was the oh so common trap of wanting someone you can never have. It didn’t take long before we were spending hours on the phone, and I truly enjoyed that time. It was both witty banter and deep conversations about what we had been through. It had become very important to me that I find someone with a sense of humor, but an ability to be serious at the right times. I felt like I found that in him.

Despite all the communicating, he wouldn’t commit. I wanted the constant communication to mean we were in a relationship, but when I told him I wanted to date only him, he replied with the “I’m not in a good enough place to be in a relationship.” It is true. He wasn’t. But we acted like we were without the label and that was confusing for me. And it hurt.

He told me to date, and he went on some dates too. However, he would then use the fact that I had gone on other dates as “evidence” that I didn’t really want to be with him. I would defend myself and he would twist it around so it became my fault. Every. Single. Time.

We continued to talk, but over time, the fighting was more and more frequent. The same push/pull dynamic played out repeatedly. I felt crazed – trying to convince someone I wanted to be with him while he was actually pushing me away. Once I started to move on, he became ready for a relationship, but made a point of letting me know that he had doubts about a relationship with me. I tried to hold on to my truth and not lose myself, but this relationship broke me down. The words broke me down. As Taylor Swift says, he was casually cruel in the name of being honest. I was called many names and accused of having so many terrible traits.

I did finally move on and started dating other people. Enough was enough. In response to this, I was accused of ghosting him. This was not ghosting. I’ve ghosted before (I’m not proud of it), but this was not it. This was me deciding I was worth more than the way I was being treated. This was me getting out of the trap of needing his validation. But I will never convince him of that. He will never see it from my perspective. He is the victim, and I am the one doing harm. That is his narrative.

We did occasionally talk after that. I learned that within a month or so after we stopped talking regularly he got into a relationship. I was still dating around. We attempted a friendship, but the conversation always steered back to who was to blame for what happened between us. A game I was destined to lose every time.

The fact that he got into a relationship after telling me he wasn’t ready for one with me triggered my insecurities in a soul crushing way. I was so tired of this being my story. Why was I always the one men left for greener pastures? I was trying very hard to build up my confidence, to not tie my self-worth to external validation. But, F*ck, it is hard. Really, really hard.

In my more confident moments, I can reflect on these relationships and look at them critically. I can see my role in them. I can see their role too. It can be gray. That is easier to accept. When you are in it, though, when the pain is raw, you need a place to put it. You will do anything to not feel it. That feeling of rejection. Of loss. Of what could have been but never was. In these painful moments, I turn on myself. I blame myself. I am the version of myself he painted me out to be.

From Spring 2020 to August of this year we did not speak. And during that time, I let go of the idea that we would ever be something. I continued to learn more about myself and who I want to surround myself around. Despite my ongoing struggles with OCD and bulimia, I generally feel more at ease, more settled. So why did I respond when he reached out?

Honestly? I think there are three reasons. One – It feels good to be on someone’s mind, especially when you already feel like you are easy to walk away from. I’m human and would like to feel more of that. Two – Dating hadn’t been going particularly well. There is some weird sexual energy out there following the months of isolation due to the pandemic…hang tight, I’ll share more on that in the near future. Finally, three – I think I was genuinely curious to see how he was. Contrary to his belief, I am not actually a monster.

Up until three weeks ago I was really enjoying catching up. I told him I needed to ease back into being in each other’s lives again and he seemed to respect that. Though, it didn’t take long until we were talking daily, including over the phone. The banter was fun. The conversations were real. I had always genuinely appreciated his comfort in sharing his emotions. They did not make me uncomfortable when I wasn’t the target of his negative feelings. When things were on good terms between, they felt really good. I let myself consider the possibility that maybe he was in a better place these days.

And then poof, it switched. I wasn’t there for him in the way he expected. He was having a difficult week and so was I. I was honest about the fact that I was struggling. I told him I had less energy to give for that reason. Still, I was accused of distancing. “You always do this.” “Would have been nice if you asked about my interviews.” For the record, I didn’t even know these interviews were happening.

I knew following this exchange of messages that letting him back in my life was a mistake. There will never be any space for me in this relationship. His needs will always take priority and I will be expected to carry them even when I’m on the ground struggling to get up.

In an effort to have more direct and honest conversations with the people in my life, I told him that I was hurt he hadn’t checked in with me to see how I was doing. I told him I didn’t feel there was room for me to struggle as well.

And suddenly it was 2018 again.

I was selfish.

I was imploding so badly he had a hard time watching it.

I flip and let emotions cloud me.

I am unstable.

I am entitled.

I am like talking to a 4th grader.

I was destructive.

I was using him and taking advantage of his kindness.

I was an asshole.

All these things were said plus more. I will admit my anger led to me saying some regrettable things. There is something so anxiety-provoking about someone who tries to rob you of your truth like he does. Every time the story is twisted and I become demonized.

The last message I sent was an apology for the hurtful things I said when angry and defensive. I do wish I was able to control my emotions more in the moment and disengage, but I am imperfect.

I own this. When provoked, I am capable of saying hurtful things.

But that is all I owed him. Me owning my part. But I refuse to own his too. I refuse to carry his anger, frustration, and pain on my back. I refuse to be a projection of his anxiety. I will not let him or anyone else weigh me down so they can feel lighter. I will not be silenced so they can yell louder.

This is progress and no one can take that away.

Cue ‘All Too Well’ by Taylor Swift

Pain (Continued)

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I live my life through song. The lyrics, the melody. They speak to me. Different songs depending on my mood or my circumstance. At the airport tonight I randomly thought of a song that I probably haven’t heard in at least 2 or 3 years. I had such a strong urge to look it up and listen to it right then, but I could only remember the beat. I waited for the lyrics to come. And then one word did. Blood. The name of the song. ‘Blood’ by Middle East. Why this song? I’m not sure I know yet, but I will try to unpack it.

The song is heavy, at least my interpretation of it is. It is about family and love and loss. Lately life has been heavy, particularly for my family. But then again when is it not? There is always pain. Your own or someone else’s. And then so often there is the fear of the pain to come or the pain from the past that you are trying to forget. It can be paralyzing for so many of us. It is debilitating. I mean this metaphorically and, also, literally. Anxiety and depression can be physically painful.

As someone who has struggled with depression, I know pain well. The kind of pain that grips you and takes over. Pain that leaves you on the floor unable to get up. Pain that leads to uncontrollable tears and then the opposite, numbness because it is so deep you just cannot face it any longer. In high school I had a plan in the back of my mind that soothed me. I could end it. If I really had to. Back then taking my own life truly seemed more tolerable than living it. The pain consumed me and I did not yet know my way out.

Today, it seems like a lifetime ago. That version of myself. Sure, it doesn’t always feel like that. I have my bad days where I feel low, both helpless and hopeless. I still feel shame about many things from my past. But today I feel okay. And more days than not, I feel okay. Of course, I still feel pain and know I will continue to. But I feel at peace knowing that it will come and go, just like feelings of joy will, as well. But it has been a hellish road to get here.

I teared up listening to this song tonight. I think because it reminds me of my own family and the weight we’ve carried. Maybe this is inevitable when living with chronic illness. We learned pain too early. Not the typical pain of childhood. The bumps and bruises that your parents can wipe away with a band aid and a kiss. It was a pain you couldn’t easily make go away and one you certainly couldn’t understand, at least not when you were under the age of ten. When a parent is sick life is scary and unpredictable and you learn to feel okay any way you can. Her pain was my pain. Her suffering was my suffering. I would have given anything to make her better.

I was recently asked on a date what I was like as an eight-year-old and all I could think of was anxious. During those years, I was scared most of the time, especially when she wasn’t home. Every time she left for a doctor’s appointment or for the hospital, I feared she wouldn’t come back. I hated the space in between when she left and when she returned. That space was lonely and the silence was deafening. I learned early on how to fill it with all the “what ifs”. I begged God to please make my family safe, happy, and healthy. Over and over again. This was self-preservation. The relief I felt every time you returned was intoxicating and I believed my various control tactics worked.

I used to look back at my childhood self with shame. Why wasn’t I stronger? Why was I so strange? Why did I behave the ways I did? While it still isn’t easy to talk about, it makes a whole lot more sense now and slowly the shame is dissipating. I’m learning to soothe the childhood me.

I understand from the outside looking in that obsessive compulsive disorder looks completely irrational. But is it? As a child, I felt out of control and I did not know how to express it. I was also told often to “be strong” which I interpreted as do not show you are afraid. I learned to control what I could. Of course, the organization of my dollhouse and the position of the throw pillows had nothing to do with my mom’s health, but it did make me feel more in control in some strange way. It was better than sitting with my spinning thoughts. When you are anxious and hurting, you will accept any form of relief. And if it works, even for a short period of time, you are going to repeat the behavior. This is what I mean by self-preservation. I learned to survive. Day by day.

When I was at the beginning stages of therapy, I was told to practice self-love. To talk to my inner child and repeat words of affirmation in the mirror. I was repulsed by it. I felt insulted by the therapist. My skin was crawling at the idea of it. What an intense response to self-care…

If you are in therapy and have had this reaction, try and ask yourself why and, most importantly, be patient. For me, it was impossible to practice self-love when I did not love myself. It felt foreign and any of my efforts would have been insincere at the time. I did not think I deserved any sympathy. The problem was me. Why would I go easy on myself?

My current framing of my struggle with obsessive compulsive disorder took years of therapeutic work. First there were the years of hiding it and then there were the years of being ashamed of it. It is only until very recently I could see it differently – as resilience.

I’ve learned the hard lesson that you cannot escape pain. Pain is certain. If you let it, it can consume you. My advice to you is to feel it. Don’t run from it. Don’t bury it. Don’t ask someone else to carry it. Feel it so you can move past it.

Cue ‘Blood’ by Middle East

Shame

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I started this blog to push myself to address my deepest fears with the hope that by doing so I would be set free of them. I wholeheartedly believe FDR’s quote “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” To live in fear is to not truly live at all. It is like spending your days digging your own grave. After my last post I told myself it was time to start addressing the parts of myself I am ashamed of. I told myself I needed to expose more of myself and to unpack why I am who I am today. Instead, I just stopped writing for five months. Why?

Because I am scared.

I am scared you will judge me.

I am scared you will think lesser of me.

I am scared by the depths of my pain.

I am scared that exposing my shame makes it real.

And after that, there will be no denying it is part of me.

Shame is like a parasite that won’t be away. It makes a home in you. Every time I soothe myself with food, I’m fueling my shame. I’m making it stronger.

So today I will start with some brutal honesty: I am more ashamed of who I am than proud of who I am. I say this after years of therapy and that shit right there is depressing. Naturally I went to therapy to feel better, to be fixed. And yet here I am. You may be thinking that the problem is my therapist or maybe how you knew therapy was a sham. I don’t think either of those things are true. For awhile I’ve been of the belief that therapy will only be as successful as what you put into it. I’ve realized there are ways we all do therapy more “safely” where we only talk about the topics we are comfortable discussing. It is incredibly easy to deal with only the current week’s events or to quickly brush over major life events that fundamentally changed us. We get to leave each session feeling like we opened up. But did we? Now I’m not so sure.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely not the same person I was years ago. I am in many ways more confident than I have ever been. But my pain is still there. It is still gut-wrenching. It is still physical.

This leads to me to a couple other things I’ve realized about therapy and self-growth. This should probably be obvious, but it only sunk in recently. Progress is not linear. There are moments in my therapeutic journey that have been transformative like when I acknowledged my insecurities with another similarly aged woman in my group or with one of the therapists. Both times I challenged my deepest fear that I’m inherently unlikeable. These sessions were both painful and powerful. But they didn’t “fix me”. I still get down about the curve balls life throws at me and sometimes I take a couple steps back and revert to old patterns of thinking. I’m thankful for these transformative, but they didn’t make me superhuman where I no longer feel hurt by future interactions.

This next realization for me has been huge and why I am risking being vulnerable on this blog. Here it is: Therapy will never work if you are of the mindset you are broken. I have always thought there was something wrong with me, with how I feel or how much I feel. I still think this way too often and this is a problem. I go to therapy to figure out how to feel less so that I won’t be “too much” for people to deal with. This right here is a goal I will never achieve. Feelings are normal. ALL OF THEM. These days, my more confident self reminds me that the ideal state is not one where I am absent of any feeling. For me, I hope to be able to manage my feelings. I hope to see them for what they are without them turning into inappropriate actions on myself or other people. So the problem isn’t that I feel sad or angry, but whether I lash out as a result.

I know, I know. I said this post was about my shame. Ultimately my shame has to deal with the fear that I am not enough and that the way I have behaved over the years is not normal or acceptable. It has been especially a problem in romantic relationships. I have a complicated relationship with men and am incredibly embarrassed by the situations I’ve gotten myself involved in.

I’ve literally never felt “skilled” in this department. I was that girl who had a huge crush on her neighbor since 4th grade and when he actually asked me out a few years later I broke up with him four hours later via a friend because I couldn’t deal with my discomfort. This is the same guy I mentioned in a previous blog post where my so called friends pretended he wrote me a love letter. After that happened, I just couldn’t actually let myself believe he really liked me. My fantasies weren’t supposed to come true for me. Period.

My first boyfriend was in 8th grade. We dated because our mutual best friends were also dating. When they broke up, we did too. As teenagers do, he started dating someone else right after and I couldn’t get that off my mind. It was right around the time of my first panic attack and the bullying and it just felt like a reinforcement that I was not likeable. I was just a pit stop on a longer journey of finding someone better. From then on, I was hypersensitive to how quickly men moved on from me and my behavior bordered on desperation. At the very least, it was destructive to my sense of self. I accepted what I thought I deserved which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

The very first man I slept with, during college, was a merch guy for a band who cheated on me. Rather than walking away, we continued to talk and I pretended that he cared because I needed to believe he did. To me, being with someone who didn’t respect me was better than being walked away from. I was “a lot to deal with” after all so beggars can’t be choosers.

Needless to say, my early twenties were a bit of a hot mess. I was the other woman to a man who went on to marry his girlfriend at the time. I was with a guy who lied about being with not one, but two other women, one who turned out to be pregnant with his child. I was date raped by a bartender I knew from the previously mentioned relationship I had been in. Left naked on the floor of the bathroom bleeding from the chin.

Two weeks later I moved for graduate school and tried to erase those memories with my new life. The life I’ve been living for the last 12 years. In many ways I’ve built the life I’ve dreamt of. I’m successful. I’m independent. But I’m also still hurting and I think it is because behind those memories which never were erased is my shame. The shame I don’t want to think about. The shame from the years I pass over quickly in therapy because I just don’t want those memories to be reality. I sure as hell do not want them to be my reality.

What would the people in my current life think? How can she be who I know her to be and also that other person? I cannot look at her the same way. And what about the people from my former life? Would they be thinking, “I told you so”? I knew she was pathetic. And what about my family? I raised her better. I told her to be strong and she was the furthest from that.

I’m embarrassed of that person I was and I still am every time I date. I’m embarrassed by my weakness. I’m embarrassed by my attention seeking behavior. I’m embarrassed by wanting love and settling instead for just sex.

When I date I am filled with doubt, anxiety and sadness. Am I worthy of love? Would they be on this date if they knew my past? Did I come across as desperate? Did I sleep with him too soon? Will he walk away like the rest?

So here is a look into my personal hell. This is the shame I am running from every time I order food only to binge and purge it. This is the embarrassment I hope will be flushed down the toilet.

This is my shame and it is part of me whether I like it or not.

Today I accept it.

Cue ‘Arcade’ by Duncan Laurence

Past

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The past. A four-letter word loaded with emotion. It has been on my mind lately in more ways than one. The holidays will do that, especially this year. It is almost impossible not to compare to the years prior. The years when both of my grandfathers were alive, and we were still creating memories instead of just looking back on them. The past is nostalgia. The past is also pain.

This year for Thanksgiving I was not surrounded by family, but I was lucky enough to be with close friends. For that, I am grateful. It is 2020 and I am still alive creating new memories. These are words that not everyone can write. This year has taken a lot from people.

In therapy, we talk about the past a lot. Sometimes we focus on the more recent past – what happened yesterday, last week, or last month. Other times we travel back to the more distant past. Childhood. We are constantly discussing our families of origin.

I’ve struggled with this. Looking backwards. Does it help or does it hurt?

At times it has felt like unnecessary dwelling. Why would I want to spend dedicated time reliving painful experiences? Been there. Felt that. I’m paying you to make me feel better.

Other times it feels circular and I just feel powerless. I’m focusing on experiences that I cannot change. It goes something like this:

Me: I feel shitty. Help me understand why I feel so shitty.

Therapist: Remember, you’ve had some shitty experiences.

Me: Oh yes, now I remember.

Me again: ……still feeling shitty……

I imagine this is why plenty of people don’t go to therapy. This dwelling on your pain. It either feels pointless or overwhelming. I feel you, people.

But the thing is we relive the past all the time, sometimes without even realizing it. We relive it through our behavior. Every.Damn.Day. Our earliest joys become what we strive for. Our pain becomes the makings of the shields we build to protect ourselves.

Seek joy.

Avoid pain.

Repeat.

So I don’t have a choice, but to go back and to hold on to it. Really hold on to it. Even though I don’t want to. This is something I’ve realized only recently. I’ve let myself believe I’m a pretty open book when it comes to sharing my past. In some ways I have been. But I’ve been selective regarding the memories I share and the way I’ve shared them. I say the words, but more times than not, I haven’t felt the feelings. Not really. I’ve said the words as if they are someone else’s story. As a matter of fact. “I felt pain,” I say, straight-faced. Perhaps I throw in a little self-deprecating humor afterword or a cliché.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

I can probably count on two hands the number of times I’ve broken down in therapy. In over a decade.

Maybe it is strange, but I want to break down. I want to loosen the grip. I want to feel.

So I will share my past and it begins now:

When I was young, very young, around four or five years old, my mom started struggling with significant digestive issues, ulcerative colitis. I can’t remember exactly when I became aware of this, but at some point I realized she was sick. She was at the doctor a lot and then the hospital. My grandparents were over a lot.

Maybe around seven or eight years old, I had trouble when she left the house and at night. I remember like it was yesterday running to the window and watching her pull out of the driveway. I would plant my face against the window and watch her drive away until I couldn’t see her car anymore. If I could not get to the window, I would panic and worry she would not come back.

At night I would tell my family goodnight and I love them over and over again. Either until I fell asleep or my parents urged me get to bed already. When my sister and I shared a room, I would make her face me as we both fell asleep. I would beg. She would get annoyed and complain to my parents. Other nights I would be unable to fall asleep unless my dollhouse was in perfect order down to the miniature silverware on the miniature table. It would nag at me if anything was out of place.

I was a child living in fear. I know this now. I’m not sure if I knew it then. I don’t think I did.

What I felt was “not okay” and I grasped at what I could to feel okay and get through the night.

The other thing I felt was “different”. I knew enough to know this was not exactly “normal” behavior. I did not see my sister and brother doing this. Instead, it was something we joked about and still do from time to time. Crazy Sarah.

Even after all these years it is hard for me to go back to that place. To be honest, I don’t think it is the pain and fear that I do not want to address as much as it is the shame. I still want to rewrite my past and change the way I coped. I still feel the urge to laugh these memories off despite how much they have shaped me.

I would rather share how my family banded together to get through those difficult years. I would rather share how my dad would come up with games to play in the car on the way to the hospital so the drive would be less difficult or so we could temporarily forget that this was “our normal”. Those are happier memories. Those are memories I’m okay looking back on.

But the other memories exist too. And they are part of me.

Cue ‘Holocene’ by Bon Iver

Safe

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You may have read my last post and thought, “Okay. Sarah doesn’t like the treasurer.” But that is not true. It is gray and today I am sitting with it.

I feel vulnerable in that relationship. I feel silly, even a bit unhinged, for fearing an adult friendship with someone who lives in the same building as me. But I’ve promised myself that I will not sugarcoat my feelings.

The truth is I feel vulnerable in every relationship to some degree. I am terrified of the connections I so deeply desire. With her (and many others) I can’t get a good sense of how she feels about me. Am I a friend? Or just someone she will inevitably see since we share the same front door? A friendship of convenience and shared financial interest?

My barometer for acceptance in relationships is how much I hear from you, how much time of mine you seem to want, how consistent you are. With her we talk and hang out in spurts. It is frequent and then it eases up. When communication is consistent, I feel calm. I do not worry as much about how she feels about me. I feel accepted. When there is silence, my feelings of doubt remind me they are my most consistent and reliable friend. The doubt is still with me. To “protect” me. To whisper just loud enough that I’ve been here before. “Be careful. People like you…until they don’t.”

Growing up I was bullied in middle and high school. By girls I thought were friends. Best friends. A memory that has stayed with me over the years is when they wrote a love note and pretended it was from the boy I really liked. They put it in my locker and watched me read it and get excited. I then heard them laughing hysterically. At me. At my excitement. Was the thought of my crush liking me ridiculous? Was my excitement funny?

Then there was the time girls left the Oompa Loompa song from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on my voicemail. It felt like they could see my insecurities and threw them back at my face. I felt mortified. Ashamed. Exposed. Alone.

This was not the beginning of my mental health issues (that was elementary school), but I think it was when they began to spiral. It was when it went from anxiety to depression. From feeling a bit different to feeling completely alone. Years of secret anguish and plans of escaping from a world that was hurting me.

It was the beginning of keeping you at arm’s length. It was the beginning of self-sabotage. Of getting close and pulling away. Of living in my world of doubt and convincing myself it was reality so I could keep being alone. It was not the place I wanted to be, but it was safe.

During that time and for many years after, I did not feel safe. I didn’t know how to. What if I seek solace in the arms of someone who would just end up hurting me? I did not push everyone away completely, but I learned not to trust. Like I said, I kept you at arm’s length. And I held my breath. I never wanted to be caught off guard again. By anyone or anything.

There is more here to unpack and over time I will. Today, I will just share that I’m grateful I’m lightyears beyond that place. That horrible, lonely place. Today, I can let you in a bit more. This blog is evidence of that. But it is hard and it will probably continue to be hard. I’m learning how to unlearn behaviors and thought processes that, during that time, I thought I needed to survive.

I still struggle with relationships. I can very quickly time travel back to my 12-year-old self. I can assume your silence is a rejection instead of busyness. I can assume it must only be about me, my weaknesses, the parts of myself that are not attractive. The parts that are “too much”. I have to slow down and remember to breathe.

The struggle can be exhausting, but I’m okay with it (most days). Connecting with you and pushing through the vulnerability has taught me so many things. You’ve been hurt too. You may have been bullied. You share many of my fears. You are a work in progress just like me.

This has been a powerful realization. We are the same kind of imperfect. Weathered from life’s experiences. I wasn’t alone then and I’m not alone now. And despite the chaos in this world, I feel okay. I feel safe.

Cue ‘Scars’ by Lukas Graham

Pain

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I am angry, but I cannot yell. I am sad, but I cannot cry.

Two months ago I flooded, almost six months to the day from when I bought my condo. It was a glorious six months of first-time homebuyer bliss. The flood was not minor. My condo filled with about a foot of water throughout the 1100 square feet and I lost a lot – furniture, electronics, pictures. Most things can be replaced, but it isn’t the same. The replacements will be similar, but not the same. The memories will be different. And then there is the money aspect. So much money to so many different people – plumbers, mold remediation experts, general contractors, lawyers. Money I don’t have.

My life has been turned upside down, but, yet, I cannot express the real, raw emotions – the anger and the sadness. I’ve cried for approximately 30 seconds in the last two months. On Tuesday, I finally came close to an outburst. I should not even call it that, but that is what came to mind first. Expressing emotions feels like an “outburst”.  Anyways, my frustration boiled over. I reached some threshold. It had to come out in some way.

The stress over money has been building since the flood happened. All in this will cost between $40-$50 thousand. I don’t have this kind of money laying around. Luckily, I have some insurance coverage, but the hook is it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the condo association. The condo association made up only of first-time homebuyers. This makes things significantly more complicated and…slow. So despite the fact that the flood happened to me, impacted only my condo, the money is not mine. This makes me angry. I’m trying to have perspective since it is better to have some money than no money but what I really want to say is, “Fuck perspective.”

Of course, I don’t say this.

On the outside I pretend I’m keeping it together and am told things like, “Wow. I’m impressed at how you are handling all of this.”

Tuesday was particularly stress-inducing because I had to write another $6,000 check to my contractor. Apparently they want to get paid for doing work. I wrote the check, but I knew I could not clear that check. Leading up to this I had been messaging the treasurer of the condo association who is in control of the insurance money and she was not responding. I asked for a payout from the insurance money and I got crickets. Let me tell you – shame plus anger is a lovely combination. A lovely combination that set me up for my “outburst”.

The outburst wasn’t really an outburst. I asked my parents for more money (which led to more shame) and, as directly as I could, I told the treasurer I was upset by her lack of responsiveness (downplaying my anger by reassuring her that I understood she was busy).

I got out of the crisis logistically, but how did I handle the emotions? I binged and purged. I had to rid myself of the discomfort, of the heaviness caused by negative emotions.

The truth is I feel ashamed that at age 34 I still need to ask my parents for money. I feel like a failure.

And I’m still angry. I’m angry I’m in this situation and I’m angry at her specifically. I’m glad I was able to express some amount of frustration, but I do not want to spend the rest of my life downplaying my emotions to make the other person feel more comfortable. I do not want to feel forced to put my emotions into a generalized frustration bucket when they are anything but that.

I don’t want to impress anyone by my lack of emotional response.

I want to scream.

And I want to cry.

I want you to see my pain.

Because maybe if you saw it, I would not have to secretly try to purge it away one binge at a time.

Cue ‘Wish You Pain’ by Andy Grammar

Identities

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We all have them. Plural.

I am a woman.

I am a daughter.

I am a sister.

I am an aunt.

I am a public servant.

I am a sexual assault survivor.

In my last post you learned of another one of my identities.

I am bulimic.

When I’m struggling this feels like my only identity. I know it isn’t, but it feels like it. When I’m hurting, my rational brain doesn’t soothe my bleeding heart. Knowing doesn’t take away the feeling. As much as I try.

In college I took a course titled “Us vs Them”. This was probably my first real introduction to identities. Obviously I knew at some level they exist, but I had never put much thought into it. How do they form? When do they matter? Why do they matter? When do they go to the extreme?

I think most would agree they matter a whole lot. Wars have been raged based on identities. Violent wars. Cultural wars. Wars within ourselves.

They seem to be growing in importance or at least that is how I perceive what I’m seeing on the news or on social media. This feels especially relevant today of all days. It is the day after election day. We still do not know who our next President is. Who is going to win? You or me? Democrat or Republican?

Yesterday I felt anger. Your identity made me angry. How are there still so many votes? How are so many people still identifying with him? I’ve been struggling a lot with the bulimia, but yesterday this other identity took over. Political affiliation. Its importance amplified. Suddenly my brother-in-law more of an enemy than the day before. Suddenly my best friend and I felt worlds apart.

It is hard to feel this anger. I hate it in fact. I feel guilty for writing what I did about people I really love. But it is also the truth. The truth about how I felt. There was an anger that I could not shake.

If I really sit with it, the anger, the discomfort, the emotions, I know the feelings are deeper. I think acceptance and our identities go hand in hand. At least I think mine do.

When you vote for him and I vote for the other guy, I feel threatened. It feels like you are disapproving of me, of my way of life. It feels like your vote condones his behavior. All of it, even the stuff we’ve previously agreed on. I go back to living in these extremes. I go back to the us versus them. How are you doing this to me? Don’t you care about me? Your identity is an attack on mine.

Rationally I know your vote was not about me, but it feels like it was. And again. My rational brain does not exactly always win. I can’t speak for everyone, but it seems like a lot of us may be feeling this way.

One of my deepest desires is to be truly and fully accepted. All of me. The good and the bad. When I’m happy and when I’m sad (yes I just rhymed). I’ve never felt accepted and I’m terrified I won’t find it. I’m terrified that I’ll find it and lose it.

If I feel threatened, like you don’t accept me, I wear my identity as a coat of armor. I wear it to cover up the pain. I wear it to protect myself. I find others whose coat of armor matches mine so I can feel part of something. I’d rather be on a side than alone.

With the election, I want my side to win. I do. But what I want more than that is to wake up tomorrow and to remember that political affiliation is just one of my identities. The next time I spend time by the toilet purging my food, I want to remember that being bulimic is not all that I am.

I am lots of things and I am enough. And you are too.

Because on November 4th in 2020 I could use this song right about now…

Cue ‘You Need to Calm Down’ by Taylor Swift

Quiet

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I’m trying to practice what I preach. I’m trying to slow down. I’m trying to breathe.

I will admit that you are meeting me at a vulnerable time for reasons I will delve into in future posts. Maybe this vulnerability is why writing is especially important to me right now. I’ve recognized the importance of this process, the process of getting the thoughts out of my head and onto paper. The process of searching for the gray and holding on to it. I’m in a black and white moment and this is me actively finding the gray.

I am writing tonight in one of my more anxious states. At the current time my thoughts are something along the lines of, “chips and queso, chips and queso, chips and queso.” Why? The most simple explanation is that earlier for lunch I ordered chips and queso along with my burrito bowl. I did not eat the chips. I was distracted with work and I was pretty full from the bowl. In other words, at the time, I did not feel I needed the chips to satisfy me.

But now it is 10:25 pm and the chips are calling my name. The thought of them being a few feet away nags at me. I have to keep refocusing my brain on something else. It is hard work. There is no denying it.

The more complicated answer to the “why” question above is that food and I have a messy relationship. Food is my comfort. Food is also my drug. It is the reason therapy was a necessity years ago and it continues to be one of the reasons I am still in therapy to this day.

I was 18 or 19 when I stuck my fingers down my throat for the first time. I am now 34.

It has taken me approximately 16 years to admit what I just did. I gave you my name and I shared something so very personal about myself with you. I am bulimic. It is part of me. It has shaped me. But it is not me.

There has been an undeniable fear of writing these words. A fear that these words would take on an identity that I could never rid myself of or that they would be turned into something so meaningless, so degrading.

“Oh you know Sarah? She is bulimic.” As if that is all that I am.

“Oh you remember Sarah? She is still bulimic?” As if that is all I have to show for the last 16 years.

I realize now that many of the fears I put onto you were projections of my own self-hatred.

Eating disorders and shame go hand in hand. At times, it has felt like I am living a double life – the one where I keep it together in front of other people and the one where I privately fall apart. But this double life has come at a cost – my sanity. Secrets are dangerous and they are heavy. They weigh you down.

Over time I will share more about the eating disorder and many other things.

For now I will focus on tonight. I got home from a date. I was feeling pretty good, but I was also feeling anxious. I’ve learned that anxiety is not all bad emotions. Instead it seems like an excess of emotions or sometimes extreme emotions. For me, anxiety is almost always in the form of racing thoughts that won’t turn off. That is, until I find something to focus my brain on. This is where chips and queso come in. Focusing on food offers this false promise of a quiet brain. I go somewhere else when I binge. It is temporarily quiet. When I’m anxious I crave this quiet even if it lasts for a very short time.

And part of me, even after 16 years, is afraid to let it go. I want to let it go. And then I don’t.

It is not one or the other. It is both.

And it is gray.  

Cue “Secrets” by OneRepublic

Gray

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What is the color gray? A color between black and white. A color without color. But is that all? It can also be a combination of colors. You can mix equal parts cyan, magenta, and yellow to get gray. Or you can mix green, blue, and violet.

In psychology, gray is thought to be an unemotional color. It symbolizes a state of detachment and impartiality. It is controlled. It is balanced. It is dependable.

What do you think of when you think of the color gray? I will admit these are not always the words that come to mind for me. Sometimes it only seems dull, boring, lifeless. Does this mean that dependability is boring? Is balance boring?

My mind is always searching for an answer, the answer. I want to know why things happen. I want there to be a reason so my thoughts stop spinning. I want to avoid the things that feel bad and steer myself in the direction of the good. But life keeps teaching me that it is much more complicated. Filled with nuance (there is that word again). I am learning through my experiences that it is less about truth and more about perspective.

I am trying to accept this. I am trying to embrace this. It hasn’t been easy.

I’ve been in therapy for years, for over a decade at this point. It isn’t because my life depends on it, not anymore, but I continue to be better off for it. So I keep going. When I first started it was more out of necessity. I was unhappy. I was lost. I wanted to be someone else. Sometimes I still feel this way, but most of the time I do not.

While I think there is less of a stigma around therapy, I still do not think it has been embraced and fully accepted. Too often it still seems like a last resort in people’s minds. It is only for acute and significant mental disorders. It is meant to be temporary. I just need a quick therapeutic jolt. “Oh, I don’t need therapy. I’m not that bad.” “It is okay if you go, but I’m not at that point.” We think it is a sign of weakness. We could not fix ourselves. That is hard to admit to others, but I think it is actually hardest to admit to ourselves.

It took me awhile to realize that therapy isn’t a fix. It is about finding perspective. This realization has been powerful. When I only saw it as a fix, every day I still struggled felt like a failure. Why isn’t this working yet? What is wrong with me? How weak am I? This mindset was based on the assumption that therapy could take away my pain. That being “fixed” meant never feeling pain or any other uncomfortable emotion.

For me embracing a world of gray means embracing perspective. It means accepting that the world is not black or white. That I am neither healed nor broken. Your truth doesn’t have to be my truth and vice versa.

Nowadays the world seems extreme. It is certainly stirring up extreme emotions. Try not to lose perspective. Try to let the other colors seep in. Those that move us away from a black and white world. Those that mix together to become a beautiful gray.

Cue ‘Change Your Mind’ by Sister Hazel