church-related heart vomit

I've been to church less than a handful of times in the last year.

In a lot of ways, it feels like that's where it started. We moved to Fort Collins to help with a church plant. We met her through that church plant because they led worship together.

Still cringing at that one.

I struggled a lot with church even before everything happened. When I think about it, going to church was hard for me for most of my marriage. I had a lot of anxiety about going, although I could never really pinpoint a discernible source. All of the fears I had about being inferior and inadequate felt magnified there. I was so bound by this crippling insecurity and self-consciousness that I couldn't even sit in a room full of (mostly) strangers without coming out of my skin the whole time. It certainly didn't help that in the same environment where I was constantly fighting to keep the panic at bay, my husband thrived. Being the introverted, anxiety-prone wife of an extroverted, outgoing worship leader was hard. Really hard. I constantly felt like a failure as a wife and as a Christian (a word I have come to seriously abhor; but more on that another time). I so desperately wanted to be supportive of him in this role, but it was so hard to be when I hated how I felt so much that I could barely make it through a service.

A lot of the time I left early. Then I stopped going altogether.

Then I found out about the affair. And still, almost a year and a half later, I can't seem to set foot in any church without falling apart. (My aversion isn't limited to a location, it seems).

Let me be clear: I don't blame the church. I never have. I don't blame anyone other than the two people involved. My church aversion started before the affair did, although I've never believed that's a coincidence. I'm also very aware that I'm no one's responsibility. I can speculate and do my best to be objective and give the benefit of the doubt when it comes to afterward. I'll be the first one to tell you that there is no good way to navigate or react to something like this. There is no right thing to say. Unfortunately, from where I'm standing, silence from the church felt like the wrong way and the wrong thing. To be blunt, I've struggled with taking offense and feeling bitter because of that silence; more things to add to my already exhaustive list of feelings to process.

I just have no desire to go to church, which I struggle with. Aren't you supposed to "hit rock bottom and have no where left to turn but Jesus?" That didn't happen for me. When I hit rock bottom, I didn't have the mental, emotional, or spiritual capacity to do anything but feel pain. It confused me for a long time, because somewhere along the line I started believing that if/when I reached that point, I would want to "run to Jesus." But I didn't. There wasn't space.

All along, I've felt this self-imposed pressure to hurry up and get there; to hurry up and want to go to church and have one of those Christian-esque relationships with God again. It got to the point where I was feeling seriously stressed out by it. This is a thing I do: I set these idealized expectations for myself, and then proceed to feel like a failure when the reality of where I'm at doesn't meet them. But I'm learning how to be honest with myself and about myself; so at the present time, church is off the table. Making that decision felt like a huge weight was lifted; I'm giving myself permission to just be where I'm at and let that be okay. It doesn't mean it's off the table forever; I'm just sparing myself the additional "Christian guilt" for the time being.

Something that has kind of amazed me through all of this is that I still believe all the same basic things I always have. I still have a relationship with God, although it looks much different now than it ever has. Looking back, even to the very beginning when I didn't have the space to be intentional about prayer, or even just acknowledging Him, Jesus has been this subtle undercurrent. This pulse. I feel more connected to Him than I ever have before. It's hard to assign words to; but then again, He doesn't need my words.

I keep coming back to a journal entry I made last year, about two weeks after finding out about the affair. I've referenced it before:

I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.

I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.

I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)

Something huge shifted when I wrote this. For the first time, things that I had been trying for years to convince myself of finally felt true. I wasn't just writing the words, I was believing them. It felt like permission to be in it and feel it, whatever that looks like; permission to have my own process. It felt like validation. It felt like grace.

Ever since then, I've felt like I'm on a totally different wavelength. It feels fresh and unhindered and is not at all what I expected. But it's good.

I am in no way saying that church is bad or unnecessary, and I'm not championing the concept of a church hiatus. This is just where I'm at. My heart needed to be let off the hook for a while. I spent most of my life under the delusion that there is a template, a formula, a checklist. Understanding that there isn't is allowing me to experience grace in ways and in places I never have before. I'm slowly beginning to understand exactly how much I need it; every second of every day, in all my messy, broken places.

And I'm so grateful.

Bomb #3

I can't say I'm surprised.

Maybe that's because I've continued to assume that's the case, without actually knowing for sure, as a way of protecting my heart from exactly this.

But it still knocked the wind out of me.

I cried, because it still hurts. Even a year and three months after hearing it for the first time. Even seven months after hearing it for the second. Even divorced and moving on.

It hurts, but not like it used to.

I didn't have a panic attack. (I haven't had one since bomb #2).

I didn't even have nightmares last night.

Maybe it's because I finally stopped hoping in his direction.

Maybe it's because I just care less.

I'm angry, but less on my own behalf. Mine wasn't and isn't the only heart assaulted by this.

The places where I'd started to feel compassion dissolved back into disgust. Historically, it's been hatred. Disgust is not new, but it holds a different space this time. Where hatred feels invested, disgust feels more removed. That's an improvement.

Strangely, the strongest feeling I have is disappointment; and not even really for myself. I'm so unbelievably disappointed in the absolute depravity of it all.

I'm pretty sure I've felt enough disappointment in the last year to last me ten lifetimes.

But it didn't knock me down this time.

I can feel it without it suffocating me.

I can feel it and still be okay.

That's progress.

That's victory.

Illusion

I used to believe
That you were
The peace
To my chaos;
But peace was an illusion,
And all along
My chaos
Was you.


- kb

9 Years Later

I never thought
That I'd thank God
For the miles
And years
Between us.


- kb

#kailatakesLA

So, I did a thing:

I went to California.
For 3 days.
All by myself.

My primary motivation was to see my very favorite author, John Green, on his Turtles All The Way Down Tour, because unfortunately the tour didn't make any stops in or near Colorado. At first I just couldn't find anyone to go with me, but then the thought of going alone turned into this exciting, bucket list caliber idea.

I'm not exactly sure how or when I became this person who is completely comfortable traveling across the country alone, but it feels pretty great. I never even felt nervous or awkward, really. It kept reoccurring to me at semi-regular intervals, this somewhat alarming realization of what the heck I'm 1,000 miles away from home and I'm not scared and I don't hate it and I'm really enjoying myself and what is happening.

I did things I wanted to do, and I did them on my own time; it felt like this incredible gift to myself. To feel that level of confidence and independence was such a new/strange/unreal experience for me. It was all so liberating.

I ate alone in restaurants.
I took a narrated tour of the city.
I saw Justin Bieber's house (which I'm still low-key freaking out about).
I did the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I saw John & Hank Green at the Alex Theatre for the last stop of the Turtles All The Way Down tour.
I walked around downtown L.A.
I took a shameless amount of snapchats and selfies.
I ate Sprinkles cupcakes.
I saw dolphins at Venice Beach and walked up the coast to the Santa Monica Pier.
I watched the sun set over the ocean, which is one of my all-time favorite things.
I had brunch in Pasadena with a girlfriend I went to Burkina with in January and hadn't seen since.
I even obnoxiously (and mostly satirically) live-tweeted it all with my own hashtag and everything. (Shoutout to my tweeps who totally humored me on this. You are the real MVPs)

I loved every minute of it.

I've had a hard time giving good enough words to how this experience has made me feel, I think because part of me is still pretty surprised at myself for doing it. Surprising myself has become something of a theme lately. I don't think it's a secret that I've struggled a lot and for a long time with my self-image and self-worth. I've always had this negative, condescending view of myself: I've always thought of myself as this small, anxious, fearful, insecure person, and my self-talk has always erred on the side of unforgiving and critical. The more I'm learning about myself, the more I'm understanding exactly how distorted this view has been. I'm surprising myself over and over again by proving myself wrong. My comfort zone is turning out to be so much bigger than I thought it was. I am turning out to be so much bigger than I thought I was. Honestly, I think one of the most prominent things I'm feeling right now is pride. I'm really proud of myself for doing this. It's taken me a while to call it what it is because I don't actually know the last time I felt proud of myself. It feels completely amazing.

Sometimes I don't even recognize myself anymore.

I've said these things before. Usually I say them in attempt to encourage and convince myself. But today I can confidently say that I believe them to be true:

I am brave.

I am strong.

I can do hard things.

I can do scary things.
I can do impossible things.
&

I know I'm gonna be okay.

Time & Metaphors

It's been a year, two months, and a week now. Apparently I'm still counting, and not even really on purpose anymore. It's true what they say, that trauma changes the way you perceive time. Everything gets categorized and processed as either before or after. I'm so painfully aware of the reality of my particular after; especially when it feels like all I can do is impatiently wait for it to hopefully become a different kind of before someday.

It seems like waiting is all I ever do anymore.

I have this fear that moving on and being okay will somehow invalidate what I've been through. That this earth-shattering thing that happened to me, this thing that caused my gravity to shift and damn near killed me will fade into the background and somehow become null and void. This pain, this grief has been my lens for so long now. It's changed me. It's not nearly as big and ominous as it was in the beginning, but it's still my constant reality. Maybe I'm hanging on to things I shouldn't be; maybe the grief has become too familiar. Maybe it's the uncertainty of whatever is next that scares me. Until last August, I had a pretty good idea of how my life was going to turn out. Now, my future feels like a giant question mark, and that's terrifying. Everything I thought I had is gone, and I have no way of knowing if it will ever be replaced.

Please don't misunderstand me; I want to be okay. I want to heal and be whole and fall in love again. I ache for the day that this is all a distant memory; a before that hopefully precedes something loosely resembling a happily ever after. But I'm already watching the people around me forget. It's not that I need those people to stay constantly aware of it, but I am still constantly and very aware of it. It's hard when something that still feels so huge and difficult to me is becoming a thing of the past to other people.

This morning, I got a text from my mom sharing part of her morning devotional:

"I've heard that the hardest part of running a marathon isn't the end. It's the places along the 26.2 mile route where there is no one along the path cheering. The hardest sections are those places where you feel like you could quit running and no one would even notice. I've found the same is true in life." - Adam Weber

I'm a total sucker for metaphors, and this one rings so true for me. Realistically, I know I still have people cheering me on. That's the whole reason my mom texted me, to remind me of exactly that. But right now I feel like I'm running a part of the race most people can't see. Most people don't see how hard I'm still working or how tired I'm getting or how often I still feel like giving up. But somehow, my feet are still moving beneath me and I'm still breathing. I know that my people are still cheering me on, even if that looks different now than it did when I started.

And so here, again, is where I have no choice but to dig deep and find my stride. Where I wait and where I keep waiting. Where I remind myself that I am strong and brave and I can do hard things.

Because I can do this and I will do this. Because I've been doing it. Because I am doing it.

The Wild

I may never forgive you
For releasing me back into the Wild.
For leaving me stranded,
Alone.
It was a long walk back from nowhere,
And I'm still evolving.
Some days I thrive,
But most days
I only survive to spite you.


- kb

A Letter to the Loved Ones

I need you to know that this is a thing that happens. I can’t predict when, as much as I wish I could; the timing is often just as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. It might be prompted by something someone did or said, whether it was directed at me or not. It might be the stress of an event or deadline that is rapidly (or sometimes, not so rapidly) approaching. It might be, and often is, triggered by a simple thought; a “what if?” that came from no where in particular.

I need you to know that it gets away from me. It’s something I’m familiar with, but that I’ll never get used to. A minute ago nothing was wrong, but now my mind is racing and my chest feels tight and it’s getting harder to breathe. I’m having to focus hard on this to try not to make it obvious, the breathing. But that almost always makes it worse.

There’s something else I need you to know: it’s just as much physical as it is mental. It’s my fight or flight response completely out of context. I get that it catches you off guard. I’m so sorry for that. But I need you to know that a lot of the time it catches me off guard, too. Once it starts, I can't stop it. I can't redirect and I can't focus on anything else. It swallows me whole. 

It's completely terrifying.

I need you to know that I can't always explain it. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that not all feelings have words.

I need you to know that I’m working on it. I hate it even more than you do. Even when I feel okay, part of me is wondering when it will rear its ugly head again. I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel and act, and I worry it will make us fight. I know how confusing and frustrating it can be for you.

I need you to know that this is a thing that happens, and that it’s not your fault. I understand that you’re not sure what to do with it. Neither am I. But I need you to know that it’s not your fault, and that it’s not your responsibility to fix. All I need is for you to hold my hand and tell me something true and understand that this is a thing that happens. 

I need you to know that sometimes I have panic attacks, and I need you to know that I'm doing the best I can.

(2015)

Tightrope

I think I've effectively established that I have a lot of feelings. Lately, I've noticed that they tend to fall into one of two categories, creating two opposing mindsets:

On one hand, I'm tempted to let the chaos that the past year of my life has created continue to crush me. Sometimes I still feel completely suffocated by it all. My mind easily and routinely dissolves into a swarm of lies and fears and doubts about who I am and what I'm worth and how my life will turn out. In this headspace, it's easier to be bitter and cynical. Love and marriage are cheap and fleeting. Being divorced equals being damaged and undesirable. The word recycled comes up for me a lot; it's the story of my love life: reduce, reuse, recycle. Depressing, right? I've been conditioned to believe a lot of depressing things; and those depressing things have become accustomed to running the show. All of this makes me want to shrink and give up and hide forever.

On the other hand, though, there are moments when I feel strangely but completely inspired and capable of rising to this challenge. In these moments, my head feels clear and it's easy to believe what's true. I know who I am and that I deserve big love and beautiful things. In this headspace, I can be big and bold and brave and hope that someone will love me well someday. Sometimes, I can even one-up hope and dare to actually believe for it. I can stand up under the pain and silence the lies. I can believe that love will win and that it's worth fighting for.

Right now, it feels as though I'm constantly walking a very thin tightrope above and between these two extremes with grief in one hand and hope in the other. All of this exists inside me, and I never know which voice will be louder. Sometimes I get to choose, but not consistently yet. I also tend to trick myself into thinking that choosing between the two is a one-time thing, but it's absolutely not. I have to choose every day which side to fall to if I can't manage to keep my balance. Sometimes as often as every minute.

Historically, the tension and the contradiction have been primarily frustrating and discouraging; but I'm learning to replace my hardwired either/or mindset with a both/and mindset instead. As difficult as it is, I'm learning to be okay with walking the tightrope, because grief still needs space. I'm still figuring out how to let grief and hope coexist. Allowing them to share space feels dangerous and risky, but also necessary to the healing process. So maybe the challenge isn't getting to the end of the tightrope, and maybe success and failure aren't measured by how many times I fall. Maybe my challenge right now is to focus on finding balance by giving grief and hope the space they each need and deserve. Maybe it's learning to embrace the tension and the necessary trial and error and acquiring grace, strength, and poise in the process.

Maybe the tightrope is less of an obstacle and more of an opportunity to become an acrobat.

They Told Me

They told me
That over time,
I would feel less
Poisoned by you.
I didn't believe them.

They told me
That time
Would help me heal.
But they couldn't
Tell me
How much.

They told me
To stay.
To wait.
Hang on.
Just breathe.

They told me
I wasn't ruined.
They told me
It wasn't
My fault.

They told me
I deserved
The moon
And at least
Ten thousand stars.

They told me
That the sun
Would shine again.
I didn't believe them.

But they were right.

- kb

The Wave Is Not The Sea

My therapist warned me early on that the pain, grief, rage, depression, etc. would come in waves, and it's true. She also warned me that when the waves came, there was really nothing I could do except be in it and feel it. Nothing would make it go away or stop or hurt less. As pessimistic as that sounds, it's just true, and it was helpful to know that it was simply out of my hands. Numbing and distracting (for me, in the form of self-harm) were dangerous options that I was trying my best to avoid.

At first, and for a long time, the waves were huge and came one right after the other, so close together that I couldn't even come up for air or catch a break in between. I've said before that I don't have very many memories of the first couple of months, and this is why. It's virtually impossible to be mentally present anywhere when your mind and heart are under water. Very, very gradually, the waves began to spread out ever so slightly, and the more times I got knocked down, the easier it got to stand back up after it passed.

I mentioned to my therapist at one point that I felt like the waves were starting to get smaller. She countered by saying she didn't believe that wasn't true; the waves weren't getting smaller, I was getting stronger and more capable of handling them.

I came across this quote last year and it has become something of a mantra for me:

"When our days are turbulent and troubled, our challenge is to remember that the wave is not the sea."   - Mark Nepo

These words have brought me so much hope, because for so long my life was nothing but turbulent and troubled. Nothing but huge, painful, devastating waves that felt completely impossible and unbearable. I couldn't even imagine an eventual version of myself that wasn't constantly being mercilessly thrashed around and pummeled by this. It felt like everything and it felt infinity and it felt like forever. But when I take a step back and look at how far I've come in the last year, I can appreciate the truth of these words. I still have days where I have to work hard to believe them, and the occasional day where I give up believing them completely. And therein lies the challenge.

So, remember:

The wave is not the sea:
This horrible, impossible thing you are doing or feeling is not everything and it's not forever.
(Even though it absolutely feels like it. That's okay. You can't see past it when you're in it).

The wave is not the sea:
What you're experiencing now is a part of a greater whole; a chapter, not the book.

The wave is not the sea:
There is so much more. There is hope.

The wave is not the sea:
Hold on. Give it time. Don't give up.

For me, it still comes in waves, but it looks very different now than it did a year ago. While all of the pain, anger, grief, etc. persist to varying degrees, and while waves still knock me down from time to time, now I can see the horizon. Now I know I can do this rather than just hope I can. And now I'm learning to skillfully swim at depths that I never thought possible.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On August 24th, exactly one year since learning that my worst nightmare had become a reality, and on the day that my divorce was final, my sister and I got these words tattooed. In honor of their truth and of the fight to believe them. In honor of the breaking and the healing. In honor of the wave and of the sea and of each other. In honor of surviving. In honor of hope.

the wave is not the sea

#IWasMadeFor

World Suicide Prevention Day has always been a big deal to me for a lot of reasons. The topic of suicide has always been so heavy on my heart because I know what it's like for suicide to make sense. I know what it's like to feel so depressed and depleted and broken that I'd do anything to escape it. To feel so much pain that I would be willing to do whatever it takes to make it stop. I know what it feels like to not want to exist anymore, and to honestly believe that death is the better option.

But I also know what hope feels like.

According to the World Health Organization, 800,000 people die by suicide each year. 800,000 people who believe varying versions of the same lie that says hope does not exist. This statistic breaks my heart, because everyone deserves to believe that hope is real and to know what it feels like. Everyone deserves to be and feel seen, loved, enjoyed, celebrated. We all deserve the space to break and also the courage to believe in the good things coming.

Every year, To Write Love On Her Arms sponsors a World Suicide Prevention Day campaign. The title of this year's campaign is "Stay: Find What You Were Made For." Deciding to stay this past year has taught me so much about who I am and what I was made for.

This year has taught me that I am vast. I feel a lot and I feel things deeply. I've learned to claim this as a strength rather than write it off as a character flaw. This year has also taught me that I am brave and I can do hard things. That loyalty is one of my highest values. That I love big and I love fiercely. This year has taught me that my intuition is solid gold and to always trust my gut. I have learned to believe that I am not ruined and that I deserve good things. I've learned how to hope even when it feels impossible and doesn't make sense.

This year has taught me that I was made for love
& stories
& laughing
& sunshine
& light
& hope.
I was made to be a daughter, sister, aunt, friend, nurse and whatever else I decide to be next.

Being a person is hard, and we're all fighting big battles. So let's love each other well and leave each other better; take care of each other and be a little kinder than necessary. Stay. Fight. Be. Become. Break and then be stronger for it and then turn around and help the person behind you. Find what you were made for, then do and be what you were made for.

You never know who you're inspiring to do the same.

Sand & Salt Water

"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea." - Isak Dinesen

There's something about the ocean. The vastness of it, maybe, or the wildness. Something about being near the ocean allows me to experience God in ways that I don't anywhere else. A year ago this week, I took a trip to Cancún with two of my very best friends. It was there that I wrote the following:

I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.

I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.

I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)

Like I said, there's something about the ocean.

I've known for a couple of months now that I wanted to go back to the ocean after the divorce was final. To be away, to clear my head, to say goodbye.

There are so many rituals associated with marriage: the wedding ceremonies with the rings and the vows and the unity ceremonies and what have you. There are no rituals when you get divorced. It's just over. For all of the rituals that marked the beginning of my marriage, there are none to acknowledge the end of it, to represent the breaking and the undoing. There are no separation ceremonies. It's a death without a funeral. This has been a difficult thing for me to process, wanting and needing closure and having to stumble around in the dark to find it all by myself. It has made grieving all the more difficult.

Unity ceremonies are common wedding rituals. A physical representation and reminder of two becoming one. At my wedding, we poured sand.

Three days ago I poured that sand into the ocean.

I fought hard for a long time in hopes of salvaging what was left of my marriage. Once it became clear to me that I was the only one fighting a losing battle, I had to start fighting to let go. I still am. Standing in the ocean that morning as the sun came up was a big step forward in that fight. It didn't occur to me until afterward that pouring my unity sand was just like spreading ashes. For me it was an acknowledgement, both of my marriage and of the death of it. A way to honor my breaking and the end of something that was so sacred to me. It was a release, a farewell. This was my letting go.

I'm beginning to notice a shift. It feels a little like transitioning from moving through to moving away from. I still have a long way to go, but it finally feels like forward motion. It finally feels like healing.

And I know I'm gonna be okay.

One Year Later

One year ago today, I sat in my therapist's office and sobbed for every single one of my 55 minutes with her. Back then, I could hardly speak the words or say the names. To say it out loud made it more real and ripped the gaping hole even wider. In all honesty, I don't remember much of what went on around me those first few months. I remember being afraid of losing my job because I was calling in sick so much. I remember my family taking turns staying in my room at night, lying awake and patiently listening to me cry until I didn't have the physical strength to stay awake any longer. I remember feeling the tension of their silent agreement not to leave me alone. I remember one specific night, lying awake and holding my sister's hand while we both cried. I remember her asking me through her tears to promise that I wouldn't kill myself. I clearly remember the pain and fear in her eyes; my fierce and precious protector, who was and is so heartbroken by this, both on my behalf and her own. I remember thinking that I couldn't imagine causing her or the rest of my family the kind of excruciating pain I felt. I made her that promise, which was no small feat. Promises are a big deal to me. And the lies were loud.

That day in counseling, my therapist asked me to write and sign a contract in my own words stating that I wouldn't hurt or kill myself. I agreed, and this is what I wrote:

I promise I will keep myself safe. I will ask for help when my thoughts get dark and I will not be alone if I am unsure. I will stay. 
Kaila Norris   8/30/16

I remember intentionally being brief and a little vague because I didn't want to be the kind of person who needs to sign a contract in order to not kill herself. But however vague the words were, I knew what I was agreeing to. She asked me to take and keep a picture of it on my phone, and she kept my original copy. She made sure that I understood exactly what I was promising.

And here I am, one year later.

If I can be completely honest, there have been moments when these two promises were all that kept suicide off the table. There have been moments when I've begrudged making them. Ultimately, I'm grateful, both for the accountability and the courage to stay alive.

While most of my memories of the things that have happened throughout the past year are blurry at best, my memories of the pain and emotions I've felt are clear as day. I'm still confident that no amount of physical pain will ever match the mental, emotional, and spiritual pain I've experienced. Pain so severe it becomes physical at times. Even though it still hurts a lot more than I'm comfortable with, even though the nightmares linger, and even though I still prefer not to speak it aloud or say the names, I have such a deep appreciation for the contrast I see between then and now. There were days early on when I literally couldn't even stand up. Now, on my good days, I stand taller than I ever have. I take a shower and leave the house most days. I run 3-4 times per week. I find reasons to smile and laugh. I'm starting to hang out with friends on a more consistent basis. I travel every chance I get. Now, my reasons to stay far outnumber my reasons not to.

And even though it still hurts and even though it's still hard, I'm glad I did.

My Great Art

Back in November, I started this blog with a post titled "Great Pain." It began like this:

They say that great art comes from great pain. If that's true, I'd like to know how these artists keep themselves upright long enough to create anything in spite of said great pain, let alone something others might consider great. My great pain has me in a crumpled heap. Always mentally and emotionally, but often physically too. The last thing I feel capable of is creating art worthy of sharing with the world.

[You can read the entire post here: https://evensohope.blogspot.com/2016/11/great-pain_17.html]

I used to mistakenly think of art as being primarily for the consumer: an author writes a book, an actor performs a monologue, a painter paints a picture; all for an audience. It's an extremely (and embarrassingly) narrow-minded view, I admit. And maybe sometimes art is confined to a supply and demand mentality. But now I understand that art is first and foremost for the artist. Often only for the artist. And I'm realizing that creating art doesn't necessarily have to be a focused effort. It's an outpouring. And overflow. Oscar Wilde said, "To define is to limit." To put the concept of something as subjective as art in a box is to do the world a great disservice.

It occurred to me today that this entire year has been my art. My waves and my tides and my occasional transient stillness. My ebbing and flowing. My art is my decision to stay alive and the life I am creating despite my great pain. My art is my story and my symbolism. It's reassembling a shattered and raw heart, a gouging and subsequent filling of all my broken places. It's my courage to plunge headfirst into the deepest pain and find myself there. My art is my vulnerability and discovering the strength I didn't know was inside me. It's believing for truth even when the lies are louder. It's learning to forgive the seemingly unforgivable. It's daring to hope that someday someone will love me well and believing that I'm worthy of that. My art is my smile and finding reasons to laugh despite the heartache. My art is my resilience and the stories I tell in ink on my skin. My art is my bravery, my dreaming, my vastness. My capacity to feel things deeply. My art is learning and knowing and loving myself.

My great art is my fight.
My fight for healing.
My fight for grace where I feel everything but.
My fight for joy.
My fight for love.
My fight to believe in the good things coming.

Maybe my art is the mark I leave on the world and on the people I love. Maybe not everyone will understand or appreciate or even notice it, and maybe that's okay. Maybe eventually it will result in a more tangible form of art that I'll share on a larger scale, or maybe it will just be the legacy I leave behind. Whatever it is and whatever it becomes, I am proud. I am proud to still be standing, breathing, healing. Surviving this year is the hardest thing I've ever done, and I hope to high heaven that it's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. It has been complicated and messy and a thousand other things, but above all, my art is mine.

And I've decided that it's beautiful.

You Know What Sucks?

Feeling like you might actually be certifiably insane. To believe or feel something so strongly one minute, then to be presented with something completely unexpected that distorts reality and makes you feel and believe the direct opposite. It's like I'm constantly having to assemble my mindset: what I believe to be true, and how I feel as a result, based on the information I have. But my mindset is delicate, like a house of cards, because everything inside me is still ebbing and flowing and there is so much I don't know and that's out of my control. The tiniest thing can undo it all: news, a memory, a dream, a tweet, a text. One minute I'm very carefully assembling this house of cards that is what I know and how I feel, and the next the cards are flying all over the place and I have no idea what happened. All I know is that I have to start all over again and somehow all the cards are different now. It's tedious and it's exhausting and I have no idea how to break the cycle. It feels like I can't win.

It's unbelievably frustrating. I feel like a psychopath. I feel unstable. I constantly have emotional whiplash because I can't keep up with myself. There is too much inside of me and there are too many external variables. Fear, doubt, hope, compassion, anger, nostalgia, love, suspicion, pain, curiosity, grief, confusion, etc. all compete for space in my head along with the questions about whatever is going on apart from me that I have zero control over. I feel everything full-force and all at once. I honestly don't know how I've managed to keep my head from exploding. I sometimes find myself wondering if this is what a psychotic break feels like. Realistically, I know I'm not actually crazy, but it still sucks to feel crazy for reasons that are beyond my control. (And coincidentally to have spent an entire year of my life essentially being told that I was crazy). I didn't ask for this. I'm doing the best I can, but it doesn't always feel like my best is enough. My heart feels heavy and my mind feels foggy and I have to try to figure out how to function despite it.

It's hard.
It sucks.
I hate it.
And yet, there is no alternative.
So I scream.
And cry.
And break things.
And then I start building again.
Because I don't have any other options.

Free Falling

Maybe the bravest and most powerful thing I've ever done is give myself unconditional permission to feel all the things.
The good, the bad, the utterly terrifying.
The things that fear and logic and society tell me I shouldn't feel.
To feel it, and to give it all  g  r  a  c  e.
To be swept away in the ever-changing current that is my mood, my thoughts, my emotions.
For too long I've been working so hard to micromanage that current.
Filter what I feel.
Surrendering control and moderation and judgement feels like a daring leap off of the highest cliff into nothing but free fall.
But you know what?
There's no effort in free fall.

And I've never felt more free.

The Beginning of the End

It's August.

Twenty four days from now I will stand before a judge, and if all goes according to plan, my divorce will be final. The date has been on my calendar for months now, but something about entering this month makes it all feel...actually, there isn't even a single word for it, and I'm struggling to narrow it down. Real? Immediate? Bigger? More painful? Terrifying?

Twenty four days from now will also mark one year since finding out about my husband's affair. It feels partly like an alarming coincidence, but mostly like a strangely poetic ending to a year of chaos and nightmares. Symbolism is a big deal for me, so I'm grateful to only have one date to associate all of this with moving forward.

Part of me is so ready to finally put this year from hell behind me and move forward. Realistically, I know that nothing is going to magically be different or easier after August 24th. The only immediate changes will be my name and my marital status. But I'm also very aware that the end of this year and this chapter is also the beginning of the rest of my life. I have absolutely no idea what that looks like, and it's terrifying. But it's also all I've got, and it's mine to create. There's hope there.

The rest of me (most of me, really) is feeling the devastating weight of it all. The weight of a failed marriage. Grieving the loss of someone who isn't dead. Letting go of what I believed my life and future were and would be. Feeling seriously uncomfortable amounts of anger and rage at how I've been betrayed, how I've been treated, and what has been taken from me. Filtering through what my marriage, the affair, and the past year have taught me about myself, my identity, and my worth. Separating truth from lies. Fearing how other people will perceive me for being 27 and divorced. Fighting the shame that I feel because my husband chose another woman over me and our marriage. Fighting to believe the people I love and trust when they tell me that nothing is wrong with me.

August 24th will come and go, and all of this will still exist inside me. My heart will still be broken, and I will still have nightmares. I believe there will be a shift, but it's not going to dull the pain. If anything, I'm preparing for it to be worse for a while. Hope and grief are constantly at war in me. Grief wins almost every time. But I'm beginning to believe that the shift that is coming will give hope more space to grow. Grief is still a necessary pain, and it will be for a long time. But I think I'm ready for grief and hope coexist. Today, anyway. I'm still learning.

My mind and my heart are in constant states of chaos. It's taken me this long to accept that and let it be what it is. It's necessary chaos, and it's okay with me. The difficult part has been learning how to rest despite it. I still haven't figured out how. I'm an ocean learning my tides. I've never really been good at going with the flow.

But I'm learning.

Is This Recovery?

They say it takes an average of two years to recover from an affair.

Next month will mark one year. The worst year of my life. As I inch closer to this "milestone," so many more thoughts and feelings and emotions and fears are cropping up, adding to the approximately 9 billion or so already in circulation.

This is absolute torture.

The more time that passes, the more I've begun to notice that for everyone else, the shock has worn off and life has gone on. Sure, you could argue that life is "going on" for me too, but not in the same way. I'm still here, but most days just barely, and some days only because I promised. Other people have the luxury of settling back into their own lives and routines. Other people get to forget that my entire life came to a screeching halt. I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, watching everyone else get on with their lives while I'm stuck living this nightmare that's only slightly less horrible than it was a year ago. I'm feeling all the same things and hurting in all the same places while the world spins on, completely oblivious. It feels like I'm losing touch and falling behind.

I can go through the motions, but that's all it is right now: passing the time and hoping that one of these days I'll wake up and it'll hurt a little less. And that's assuming that day will come at all. Today it feels like a dangerous thing to hope for, because all my broken pieces are all still just as broken as they've ever been. And just as painful.

It's terrifying, feeling this way with no end in sight. It's also exhausting.

Is this recovery? Because it feels more like dying to me.

The Notes Between the Music

I'm currently reading Present over Perfect by Shauna Niequist, which I am about halfway through and already highly recommend. I read this particular paragraph the other day, and this idea really grabbed me:

"Whatever it is that you clutch onto with angry fists, that you grab like a lifeline, when you release that thing, when you let it go, that's when you'll hear the notes between the music. That's when you'll feel the groove, the rhythm you were made to feel, that you've covered over a thousand times with noise and motion and fear and all the things. When you hear it, you'll realize it sounds a lot like your own heartbeat, the rhythm of God, of life, pumping in your chest, the most beautiful song you've ever heard."

The notes between the music. I love that.

Earlier in the chapter, Shauna mentions that her husband is a musician. "His all-time favorite base players play relatively few notes, and the beautiful thing they make is all about the space between the notes--that's the groove."

I'm no musician, but I know enough to take this metaphor and run with it. I know that every rest and every space between notes is necessary to create the intended sound. And I love the idea that maybe seasons of silence and waiting are a necessary part of the music my life is making. For me, the last ten months have felt like one giant space between notes. The longer the space gets, the harder it is to remember what the last note sounded like, and the harder it is to believe that the song isn't just over. But I'm believing for the music. I'm choosing to believe that this space is only a space, that the song isn't over, and that the best is yet to come. I'm choosing to relax as best as I can, to listen, and to trust that I'll hear it.

Believing that feels like hope, and not the exhausted, grasping, about-to-give-up kind.

It feels like the beautiful kind.

Real Talk, Part 2

I am experiencing what has been called a significant emotional trauma. Two traumas, actually. The same "bomb" went off two different times. The first was August 24th of last year. The second was about two months ago.

It turns out that the bomb metaphor is actually a really good one. It's huge, devastating, unexpected. It's completely destructive and leaves nothing untouched. Although no literal lives were lost, there have been plenty of casualties. My ears are still ringing and I still can't seem to make sense of anything.

Another good metaphor for how I feel most of the time is drowning. I feel like I'm constantly kicking and fighting the current that's trying to pull me under, while wave after wave tries to swallow me whole. It's like I'm getting tossed around and thrown against rocks but I can't get my feet under me and I can't die. I'm stuck and I'm scared and I can't breathe.

Sometimes I think this must be what dying feels like.

Situational depression probably goes without saying. I'm a mess. With this as my reality, feeling depressed and hopeless and miserable and wanting to give up are easier. I want to be happy, but it's so hard. I get tired of trying sometimes. It's easier to dissolve into the pitiful lump that I feel like I am all the time. Sometimes I can't imagine being on the other side of this, and I can't believe that there is a future ahead of me that could possibly be worth enduring all this pain. I didn't ask for this. And I don't get to forget. I don't get to forget, even for a second, that my husband had an affair for over a year. I don't get to forget that he couldn't even pretend to put up a fight for me or for our marriage. I am constantly reminded of the most excruciating thing I've ever had to feel.

And still, the only way out seems to be through.

I can't go back, because there's nothing to go back to. I can't fast forward. I can't skip to the end. I just have to be in this for as long as it takes.

Sometimes I do have pretty great days. But it gets so frustrating to have a good day, or even a string of good days, followed by a breakdown or a nightmare. It's so discouraging and makes me feel like I'm moving backwards. But I'm slowly figuring out how to accept it. I'm learning how to let my process be what it is without giving it a label or assigning it good or bad, or right or wrong. Some days I cry and scream and break things and that's okay. Some days I'm more distractible and can get things done and have a good time, and that's also okay. This is where I am, and no amount of wishing will get me elsewhere. All I can do is
see it,
feel it,
learn it,
know it.
Respect it, because it's valid.
Be honest with it.
Ask for help when it gets too heavy.
And leave room for grace, because at the end of the day, no matter what the day looked like, I'm doing the best I can.

Because if I can do this, if I can survive this thing that keeps trying to kill me, then I can do anything.

Real Talk

Fact: I'm sad a lot.
Fact: Sometimes I spontaneously burst into tears just because it's been a while.
Fact: I don't sleep well and consistently haven't for 9 months (and counting!)
Fact: Some days, it's all I can do to get out of bed in the morning. (Some days I don't).
Fact: Sometimes the fact that I'm not an alcoholic feels like a huge personal victory.

I'm trying to figure out how to be okay with these things.

Sometimes I just don't want to do it anymore. So often I find myself thinking, "Can just one great thing please happen to me already?!" But would that even help? Maybe, maybe not. I'm trying to figure out how to grieve the things I've lost and also the things I thought I had that it turns out I didn't. I'm also trying to figure out how to grieve the future I thought was ahead of me and somehow create space for something totally new and unknown. It's completely exhausting. Also, horrible. So much of the time I want to stomp my feet and scream because I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE. I want to be done. I want to be happy and hopeful, but I have to work hard to be those things a lot of the time, and that's exhausting. Angry and sad and cynical and bitter are easier. They're bigger and louder and constantly screaming in my ear.

I'm feeling 74334579876421470 things all at once and learning how to let myself feel them and be okay with it, because they are real and valid and necessary. My brain knows this, but my heart is so tired. It's all so messy and complicated and it feels completely impossible. But it's the truth and it's real. It is what it is, and there's not a lot I can do except let it be and feel it; which I'd say is probably comparable to being on fire and also being run over by a steamroller while drowning. You may be thinking to yourself, "Those things can't happen all at once!" Well, I'm here to tell you that metaphorically, they sure as heck can. Spoiler alert: it's the pits.

It feels so unfair that most people have no idea how hard I'm working to keep my shit together. At all times. [Note: My shit is the furthest thing from together. I am constantly reminded of this. (See fire/steamroller/drowning comment above)]. But you can't just walk around like a humongous train wreck all the time because it freaks people out and gets in the way of things like having a job and being in public without people questioning your sanity.

I know that being in love isn't everything, but it's what my big gaping hole is shaped like right now. On my best days, I can believe I'm going to be okay. But on my worst days, I feel like this is slowly killing me. I have a lot of worst days. If I can't be honest about that, I'm pretty sure it's only going to kill me faster.

So I'm cutting myself some slack and trying to remember to leave room for grace. After all, I'm making it up as I go and doing the best I can. It's hard and it hurts all the time but I'm doing it.

Hope is exhausting.

Thoughts In Response To 13 Reasons Why

I just finished watching 13 Reasons Why.

I read the book about three years ago and really loved it, so I was disappointed to hear so many negative reviews about the Netflix series. I started hearing words like "triggering" and "dangerous" and worried that I was misremembering something, or that maybe I was wrong for liking it in the first place. After finishing the series tonight though, I stand by my original assessment. Overall, I loved it, although I do see a lot of valid points being made against it. I believe it is absolutely triggering for a lot of people, and I applaud those who are able to recognize that and steer clear. The decision of whether or not to watch this show requires a lot of self-awareness. It will be eye-opening for some and poison for others. (I also think that's true about a lot of things, and not just this particular show. Everything is controversial these days). It was definitely, at times, extremely difficult to watch. I watched much of the finale through my fingers and cried. It's heavy and so heartbreaking. But it's also a reality for so many people. My hope is that amid anger at the show's flaws, we also leave room to grieve the lost and hurt with the hurting.

I may be one of few people who has struggled with self-harm and thoughts of suicide  and wasn't triggered by the show. I credit some of that to already knowing what happens, having read the book. It's easier for me to compartmentalize this particular story as fiction, and I really respect Jay Asher's boldness and willingness to address such a sensitive topic. He created a plot that I found entertaining and suspenseful, and brought characters to life that I either strongly connected with or seriously hated. I emotionally invested in the story and in the characters. The plot demanded my attention. It's fiction, but it's exactly the kind of thing that could happen. That does happen. That's the kind of story I love to read: real, raw, honest. That, in my opinion, is creative brilliance.

I also think the story makes a lot of important points that deserve attention:
- How we treat each other matters.
- We take a lot for granted.
- Our actions have consequences (and we need to take responsibility for both the actions and the consequences).
- Pain is real. [Soapbox: I am a nurse. In health care, pain is considered the sixth vital sign (along with temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation). Pain is literally defined as whatever the person feeling it says it is. We treat it objectively. I so strongly believe that this should be true of all pain: mental, emotional, spiritual. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't be feeling just like I don't get to tell you what you should or shouldn't feel. Pain is real and alive and should be treated as such.]
- You never know what's going on in someone else's head or heart.
- Assumptions are dangerous.
- We only see what other people let us see and vice versa.
- Secrets can kill. Literally and metaphorically. (This one goes deep for me, but more on that another time).

I hope this series gets people talking even more than they already are. We need to talk about the hard things. We all deserve to feel freedom to say what we think and how we feel, even and especially when it's hard. Because life is hard and being a person is hard and we're all in this together. When it comes to the show, do you. Love it, hate it, watch it, or don't. Either way, I strongly encourage you to join the conversation.

Let's talk about pain.
Let's talk about bullying.
Let's talk about mental health.
Let's talk about suicide.
Let's talk about raising awareness.
Let's talk about how to treat each other well.

And let's love each other, because we're all we've got.

If Grief Was A Line

Some days, you wake up with grief sitting on your chest.
Other days, it sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
Some days you wear it like a harness that's too tight, while other days you can hold it at arms length.
Sometimes it infuses the very air you breathe, making everything feel heavy and humid.
(Sometimes it feels like that for days, or even weeks at a time).
Sometimes it's triggered by something seemingly insignificant; a song, a place, a smell.
Sometimes it's triggered by something that wasn't a trigger yesterday.
Grief is confusing like that.
Some days, you might be able to leave grief at home.
Other days, it underlines every thought, every word.
Grief can make you forget things.
Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it shouts.
Sometimes grief controls your dreams.
(We grieve awake and asleep, you know).
If grief was a line, we might have a better idea of what to expect and when to expect it.
If grief was a line, we could prepare ourselves. Plan better.
If grief was a line, we might have come up with a solution by now.
If grief was a line, it might make sense.
Grief is not a line.
Grief is a minefield.

27

I turn 27 today. 

Chronologically, not exactly a big one. But this birthday is a big deal for me, mostly because of how hard I've worked to get here.

Turning 27 marks surviving what has easily been the the most difficult year of my life (which is possibly the understatement of the year). It also represents the slow and (at times) painful transition from surviving to thriving. Several months ago, life as I knew it came to an abrupt halt. A lot of things were broken and taken away from me and replaced with feelings of fear, hopelessness, abandonment, and pessimism. For that reason, I've had to unlearn a lot of untrue things about myself and unbelieve a lot of lies. For me, 27 is a fresh start as my best self, and is choosing to believe that the best is yet to come. I am stronger, more confident, and more self-aware than I've ever been. I know what I'm capable of and what I'm worthy of and I'm not willing to settle for less. I know who I am, and I believe that I have something beautiful to offer the world that no one else can.

27 is going to look very, very different than 26 in some of the scariest ways. However, I have never in my life felt more loved, cherished, valued, and supported than I do right now; which, all things considered, is pretty incredible.

27 is beauty from ashes.

So, 

Cheers to 27:

To starting over, 

To healing, 

To rebuilding, 

To dreaming big, 

To shooting for the moon,

And to doing the impossible.