The best thing I can say about 2016 is that it's over now. It was easily the worst year of my life. Did good things happen? Yes; but unfortunately if we're making lists, the bad far outweighs the good.
In 2016, I could have checked out. I've wanted to so many times. Checking out would have been the easy thing. I could have let this big, horrible, impossible thing swallow me whole. But here I am, on the brink of 2017, about to step into something completely new. A blank slate. The clock will strike midnight, and while it won't erase 2016, it will put it where it belongs: behind me.
I'm painfully aware of the fact that the new year doesn't actually change anything. It will still be the same going to bed and waking up and going to work that I did yesterday. But I need the symbolism, because I have had to fight hard for 2017. To me, 2017 is full of possibilities and trips and bucket list check marks because I desperately need it to be. I need to believe that 2017 can be better because I can't imagine how it can possibly be worse. Every day I'm fighting and clinging so tightly to hope that it hurts, and I need the newness, even if it's simply buying a new day planner and training my brain to write a 7 instead of a 6.
This year is about healing and taking good care of me. It's about challenging myself and putting myself out there and doing things I've always wanted to do, because why not? If not now, when? Right now, so much of this new year is a giant question mark. The only things I know for sure are the very few plans I've made, which is just the way of it, but it's still completely terrifying. I have no idea how a lot of things are going to shake out. So many things that I entered 2016 believing to be true have turned out otherwise. As necessary as the newness of 2017 feels, the uncertainty of it makes my head spin.
But.
I know that I can do it because I've been doing it and I am doing it. I am living and breathing and doing this thing that feels impossible. Who I am today is so much stronger than who I was at the beginning of this year, and that's a big deal. I still have a very long way to go, which is discouraging most of the time. The shitty thing about knowing that I can do this is the reality that I have to keep doing it. But recognizing how far I've come makes me excited to keep getting better.
So, here's hoping. Cheers to the year I fought for and to doing impossible things.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Anxiety is:
Anxiety is being indecisive, because you are convinced that there is always a right choice, and you're genuinely afraid of making the wrong one.
Anxiety is walking into a room and immediately feeling like the smallest, least qualified, or least important one there. Every. Single. Time.
Anxiety is assuming and expecting the worst, no matter how much evidence to the contrary.
Anxiety is reacting physically and emotionally to a "what if" scenario that may or may not even happen.
Anxiety is frantically filling in the blanks. (Silence is loud).
Anxiety is constantly worrying that all of your worst fears will suddenly come true.
Anxiety is constantly worrying that all of your worst fears will suddenly come true.
Anxiety is carrying the weight of a bad dream into your day.
Anxiety is mental, emotional, physical.
Anxiety is being afraid that other people will notice.
Anxiety is being bombarded with a constant stream of lies about your identity and self-worth, and feeling as if you have no choice but to believe them.
Anxiety is believing you're the only one, that no one else could possibly understand what it's like.
Anxiety is feeling like at any given moment you're only barely holding it together.
Anxiety is being afraid that other people will notice.
Anxiety is being bombarded with a constant stream of lies about your identity and self-worth, and feeling as if you have no choice but to believe them.
Anxiety is believing you're the only one, that no one else could possibly understand what it's like.
Anxiety is feeling like at any given moment you're only barely holding it together.
Anxiety is believing you fall short of every expectation. Yours, and everyone else's.
Anxiety is a lot of things and it can look different for everyone. This is what anxiety looks like from my perspective.
Anxiety is a lot of things and it can look different for everyone. This is what anxiety looks like from my perspective.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Thoughts from Boston to Denver
There's something about flying, about looking down at the world from 40,000 feet that always tends to put me in a philosophical mood.
The past few months have tempted me to close myself off in so many ways. In crisis mode, it's self-protect, self-protect, self-protect, and avoid any and all situations that could potentially land me here again. It's living life on chronic defense: limit and/or eliminate all potential threats. But is that fair? Is it right? Is it really any way to live?
In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the main character, Newt Scamander, makes a simple comment that has stuck with me ever since I saw the movie: "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." I've heard similar phrases an annoying number of times before, and most of the time I'll still tell you that "don't worry" are the two most useless words you can possibly say to an anxiety-prone person. Maybe it's because of how blunt this particular word order is, or maybe it's simply because it was written by J.K. Rowling -- regardless, and for some reason, this thought has stayed with me.
I could easily construct a shell. I could live in such a way as to eliminate as much potential for pain as possible. I could let worrying about whether or not I'll wind up hurt again dictate how I live my life. It's the safer option, and honestly, it's the more appealing one most of the time.
Or.
I could live with my heart wide open. I could allow this experience to open me up instead of close me off. I could do all the things that terrify me, knowing full well that I could eventually wind up hurt again. I could put myself out there and claim what is rightfully mine: life to the fullest.
I want to be the kind of person who believes the best in people. Who gives the benefit of the doubt. Whose vulnerability inspires vulnerability in other people. Who comes out on the other side of pain and heartache stronger, kinder, and braver instead of weak, bitter, and fearful.
I first came upon the following quote while reading Brené Brown's Daring Greatly, which I very highly recommend if you haven't read it. It paints a powerful picture and has really been challenging my way of thinking as of late.
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."
- Theodore Roosevelt, "Citizenship in a Republic" (emphasis mine)
This is how I want to live my life: daring greatly. Bravely. Courageously. BIG. Closing myself off would serve no one, least of all me. Could I get hurt again? Sure. But something tells me it's a risk worth taking.
Disclaimer: this is not a consistent desire right now. Most of the time I still prefer the idea of closing myself off so I never have to feel anything this terrible ever again. But I'm working on it. I don't want to live scared. I don't want to operate primarily out of fear. What's the point of a life lived carefully? I want to heal and I want every good thing life has to offer me. I want the joy that matches this deep despair. And I'll get there.
I'm already on my way.
The past few months have tempted me to close myself off in so many ways. In crisis mode, it's self-protect, self-protect, self-protect, and avoid any and all situations that could potentially land me here again. It's living life on chronic defense: limit and/or eliminate all potential threats. But is that fair? Is it right? Is it really any way to live?
In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the main character, Newt Scamander, makes a simple comment that has stuck with me ever since I saw the movie: "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." I've heard similar phrases an annoying number of times before, and most of the time I'll still tell you that "don't worry" are the two most useless words you can possibly say to an anxiety-prone person. Maybe it's because of how blunt this particular word order is, or maybe it's simply because it was written by J.K. Rowling -- regardless, and for some reason, this thought has stayed with me.
I could easily construct a shell. I could live in such a way as to eliminate as much potential for pain as possible. I could let worrying about whether or not I'll wind up hurt again dictate how I live my life. It's the safer option, and honestly, it's the more appealing one most of the time.
Or.
I could live with my heart wide open. I could allow this experience to open me up instead of close me off. I could do all the things that terrify me, knowing full well that I could eventually wind up hurt again. I could put myself out there and claim what is rightfully mine: life to the fullest.
I want to be the kind of person who believes the best in people. Who gives the benefit of the doubt. Whose vulnerability inspires vulnerability in other people. Who comes out on the other side of pain and heartache stronger, kinder, and braver instead of weak, bitter, and fearful.
I first came upon the following quote while reading Brené Brown's Daring Greatly, which I very highly recommend if you haven't read it. It paints a powerful picture and has really been challenging my way of thinking as of late.
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."
- Theodore Roosevelt, "Citizenship in a Republic" (emphasis mine)
This is how I want to live my life: daring greatly. Bravely. Courageously. BIG. Closing myself off would serve no one, least of all me. Could I get hurt again? Sure. But something tells me it's a risk worth taking.
Disclaimer: this is not a consistent desire right now. Most of the time I still prefer the idea of closing myself off so I never have to feel anything this terrible ever again. But I'm working on it. I don't want to live scared. I don't want to operate primarily out of fear. What's the point of a life lived carefully? I want to heal and I want every good thing life has to offer me. I want the joy that matches this deep despair. And I'll get there.
I'm already on my way.
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Feeling Deeply
I am a feeler. I feel a lot of things and I feel them deeply. You could call me emotional, but I'm not sure that's entirely fair in this particular context. I am, in fact, emotional. I always have been. It might even be the truest thing about me. But I believe that I am emotional as a result of my feeling deeply. Labeling someone as "emotional" almost always has a negative connotation attached, hence the unfair part. What's wrong with feeling deeply? Can't "emotional" be a symptom of having a big heart instead of a dismissal?
I'm learning that there are a lot of different ways to carry emotion. It's not something to hide behind. For a long time I let the fact that I am "emotional" be my banner, but feeling deeply is not and cannot be an excuse for inappropriate or manipulative behavior. Emotions can be completely valid and also completely subjective. I tend to be about 80/20 when it comes to emotions and logic. I think that can be okay as long as I learn to tread wisely.
I'm currently reading Rising Strong by Brené Brown. Early on in the book, she uses the phrase "the stories we make up" pretty cavalierly, and as soon I read it, all the lights went on. It was one of my biggest ah ha! moments in a long time:
Other people do it too.
I've always referred to it as "filling in the blanks." When I'm anxious or afraid or worried, or if I don't have all the details about something, or if something's making me feel uneasy, I fill in the blanks. I make up stories with the information I don't have. This is something that has always come so easily to me. I make up stories and I believe them. I react emotionally, even physically to them. A lot of the time, once the story starts to take shape, I almost instantly accept it as truth. I behave as though it's the truth. And in my head, it makes sense (of course it does, I'm the one who made it up). But once the story is there, it's as if nothing else could possibly be true instead. There is no alternative.
This is a very dangerous and painful habit.
I've known for a while that I do this, and I've slowly been working on unlearning some bad habits. In Rising Strong, Brené talks about meetings she has with her colleagues, and how they all routinely use the phrase "this story I'm making up is..." in order to be transparent and honest with one another. She raves about how much stronger this tactic makes her team and how much respect they all have for each other's honesty. Not to mention the fact that it often helps to clear up simple misunderstandings. I'm slowly learning to do that. I'm learning to ask direct questions instead of make assumptions, and I'm learning to be honest (and sometimes blunt) about what I'm feeling or afraid of in order to be understood. It's weird and it's hard and it really goes against the grain for me. It's uncomfortably vulnerable. But the peace that follows clarifying things I don't understand and knowing what's true is infinitely better than the downward spiral that is believing the stories I make up. I'm always telling the patients I discharge, "If you're unsure about something or you have a question, don't hesitate to call your doctor. Even if it feels small or silly or it's the middle of the night, it's better to know than to wonder and worry." I'm realizing as I type this that I need to do a better job of taking my own advice. It's better to know than to wonder and worry.
Although maybe on varying levels, making up stories is something we all do. Knowing that feels so unbelievably validating. Acknowledging and understanding it for what it is is huge, and it feels like a big step forward for me. It feels like getting better.
The thing about feeling deeply is that while I feel things for valid reasons, I also feel deeply as a result of the stories I make up. It's emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausting, and at times it has caused me hurt the people I love. To feel deeply, whether a blessing or a curse, inevitably results in feeling deep pain. I often scrape the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But I want to believe that that means that my emotional range goes both ways, that I am also capable of feeling joy unspeakable.
I'm learning, and it's helping me hope.
I'm learning that there are a lot of different ways to carry emotion. It's not something to hide behind. For a long time I let the fact that I am "emotional" be my banner, but feeling deeply is not and cannot be an excuse for inappropriate or manipulative behavior. Emotions can be completely valid and also completely subjective. I tend to be about 80/20 when it comes to emotions and logic. I think that can be okay as long as I learn to tread wisely.
I'm currently reading Rising Strong by Brené Brown. Early on in the book, she uses the phrase "the stories we make up" pretty cavalierly, and as soon I read it, all the lights went on. It was one of my biggest ah ha! moments in a long time:
Other people do it too.
I've always referred to it as "filling in the blanks." When I'm anxious or afraid or worried, or if I don't have all the details about something, or if something's making me feel uneasy, I fill in the blanks. I make up stories with the information I don't have. This is something that has always come so easily to me. I make up stories and I believe them. I react emotionally, even physically to them. A lot of the time, once the story starts to take shape, I almost instantly accept it as truth. I behave as though it's the truth. And in my head, it makes sense (of course it does, I'm the one who made it up). But once the story is there, it's as if nothing else could possibly be true instead. There is no alternative.
This is a very dangerous and painful habit.
I've known for a while that I do this, and I've slowly been working on unlearning some bad habits. In Rising Strong, Brené talks about meetings she has with her colleagues, and how they all routinely use the phrase "this story I'm making up is..." in order to be transparent and honest with one another. She raves about how much stronger this tactic makes her team and how much respect they all have for each other's honesty. Not to mention the fact that it often helps to clear up simple misunderstandings. I'm slowly learning to do that. I'm learning to ask direct questions instead of make assumptions, and I'm learning to be honest (and sometimes blunt) about what I'm feeling or afraid of in order to be understood. It's weird and it's hard and it really goes against the grain for me. It's uncomfortably vulnerable. But the peace that follows clarifying things I don't understand and knowing what's true is infinitely better than the downward spiral that is believing the stories I make up. I'm always telling the patients I discharge, "If you're unsure about something or you have a question, don't hesitate to call your doctor. Even if it feels small or silly or it's the middle of the night, it's better to know than to wonder and worry." I'm realizing as I type this that I need to do a better job of taking my own advice. It's better to know than to wonder and worry.
Although maybe on varying levels, making up stories is something we all do. Knowing that feels so unbelievably validating. Acknowledging and understanding it for what it is is huge, and it feels like a big step forward for me. It feels like getting better.
The thing about feeling deeply is that while I feel things for valid reasons, I also feel deeply as a result of the stories I make up. It's emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausting, and at times it has caused me hurt the people I love. To feel deeply, whether a blessing or a curse, inevitably results in feeling deep pain. I often scrape the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But I want to believe that that means that my emotional range goes both ways, that I am also capable of feeling joy unspeakable.
I'm learning, and it's helping me hope.
Monday, December 5, 2016
I Can See the Sun
I need to believe in better things
All I can see is the ocean inside of me
And I'm drowning
I never meant to need so much
Or be so hard to love
All I've ever wanted is to be whole
Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun
Is silence too much to ask for?
I only hear the ghosts that haunt me
And they're screaming
I didn't hear you whispering my name until you stopped
I need you more than ever now
Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun
Please don't go
Say you'll never leave
This heart is much too heavy
Will you hold it for a while?
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
- k.n.
(2015)
All I can see is the ocean inside of me
And I'm drowning
I never meant to need so much
Or be so hard to love
All I've ever wanted is to be whole
Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun
Is silence too much to ask for?
I only hear the ghosts that haunt me
And they're screaming
I didn't hear you whispering my name until you stopped
I need you more than ever now
Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun
Please don't go
Say you'll never leave
This heart is much too heavy
Will you hold it for a while?
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
- k.n.
(2015)
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Broken
This morning I read a devotional by Ann Voskamp and came across this thought:
"Never be afraid of being a broken thing...unless a seed breaks, there is no life."
I have two initial reactions to this:
The first is encouragement, because I feel so broken. I so badly want life to come from this brokenness, and I want to be comforted by believing it will come. But the second reaction is bigger and is exactly the opposite: discouragement, because I feel so broken. There is a lot of fear surrounding that for me. It's so much easier to say something like "don't be afraid of being broken" if you're not broken, or if you were broken a long time ago. But if you're in the thick of it? When every single day feels like the waves are beating you against the rocks, but you can't escape and you can't drown? When your only option is just to feel it?
The small part of my heart that is capable of hope loves this idea. But my heart is still very much in the breaking process, and a large part of me feels like this statement belittles that in some ways. I want this break to result in life, I'm just not in a place where I can see that yet. One of the hardest things in the world for me has been hoping for something that I can't believe is true. Hoping for life and healing when all evidence is to the contrary, when all I feel is pain and anger and grief. And I find myself wondering, what good has getting my hopes up ever done me anyway?
My perspective on this flips constantly. This is far and away the hardest thing I've ever done. I've never hurt this badly. Pessimism and hopelessness are so easy, and they're comfortable. Familiar. I am grieving, heartbroken, and angry all at once. There is absolutely no pattern or system, so I never know how I'm going to wake up feeling, or when it's going to change, or when something will trigger some random memory or realization to add to the giant pile of things I'm having to process. I never knew it was possible to feel and believe two (or more) completely opposing emotions at the same time. Let me tell you, it absolutely is. Most of the time I feel completely crazy.
But there are glimmers of hope. When I feel discouraged, and when I think about how impossible this all seems, and when I don't feel like I'm strong enough, I remember that I am doing this thing that feels impossible. I've been doing it for months now. Has it been pretty? Not even close. Have I done and said things I regret? Absolutely. But I am stumbling, tripping, falling, and crawling my way through this the only way I know how. One minute at a time. I'm stronger now than I was in August. Knowing that is encouraging, but also exhausting, because I still have a long way to go. But I'm doing it.
When I think about a seed breaking and a sprout forcing it's way out of that hard shell, I think there's no way that wouldn't be painful. Probably unbearable, actually, if plants felt pain. But the process is necessary and the result is worth it.
And I so desperately hope that's true for me too.
"Never be afraid of being a broken thing...unless a seed breaks, there is no life."
I have two initial reactions to this:
The first is encouragement, because I feel so broken. I so badly want life to come from this brokenness, and I want to be comforted by believing it will come. But the second reaction is bigger and is exactly the opposite: discouragement, because I feel so broken. There is a lot of fear surrounding that for me. It's so much easier to say something like "don't be afraid of being broken" if you're not broken, or if you were broken a long time ago. But if you're in the thick of it? When every single day feels like the waves are beating you against the rocks, but you can't escape and you can't drown? When your only option is just to feel it?
The small part of my heart that is capable of hope loves this idea. But my heart is still very much in the breaking process, and a large part of me feels like this statement belittles that in some ways. I want this break to result in life, I'm just not in a place where I can see that yet. One of the hardest things in the world for me has been hoping for something that I can't believe is true. Hoping for life and healing when all evidence is to the contrary, when all I feel is pain and anger and grief. And I find myself wondering, what good has getting my hopes up ever done me anyway?
My perspective on this flips constantly. This is far and away the hardest thing I've ever done. I've never hurt this badly. Pessimism and hopelessness are so easy, and they're comfortable. Familiar. I am grieving, heartbroken, and angry all at once. There is absolutely no pattern or system, so I never know how I'm going to wake up feeling, or when it's going to change, or when something will trigger some random memory or realization to add to the giant pile of things I'm having to process. I never knew it was possible to feel and believe two (or more) completely opposing emotions at the same time. Let me tell you, it absolutely is. Most of the time I feel completely crazy.
But there are glimmers of hope. When I feel discouraged, and when I think about how impossible this all seems, and when I don't feel like I'm strong enough, I remember that I am doing this thing that feels impossible. I've been doing it for months now. Has it been pretty? Not even close. Have I done and said things I regret? Absolutely. But I am stumbling, tripping, falling, and crawling my way through this the only way I know how. One minute at a time. I'm stronger now than I was in August. Knowing that is encouraging, but also exhausting, because I still have a long way to go. But I'm doing it.
When I think about a seed breaking and a sprout forcing it's way out of that hard shell, I think there's no way that wouldn't be painful. Probably unbearable, actually, if plants felt pain. But the process is necessary and the result is worth it.
And I so desperately hope that's true for me too.
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